









LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. | 

Chap^ Copyright No» i 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, i 


AN INDEX FINGER 


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AN INDEX FINGER 


BY 

TULIS ABROJAL 

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“ All the Sutras are but fingers that point out the shining moon.** 

“Man, thou livest forever.** 

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born ? 

I hasten to inform him, or her, it is just as lucky to die ; and I know it. 

This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look’d at the crowded heaven. 

And I said to my spirit; When we become the unfolders of those orbs, and the 
pleasure and knowledge of everything in them, shall we be filled and satisfied then? 
And my spirit said; No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond. 

— Walt Whitman. 



R. F. FENNO & COMPANY, 9 and ii EAST 
SIXTEENTH STREET : NEW YORK CITY 



Pz^i 

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2G703 

Copyright, 1897 

BY 

TUI<IS ABROJAU 


TWO COPIE&_RECEIVED, 







MM 1 5 1899 1 


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DEDICATION. 


To those who faithfully follow their ideals, 
ever doing the work they love to do, always giv- 
ing to the world the best that is in them — the 
truth as they see it — though in the face of diffi- 
culties, disasters and defeat; enduring persecu- 
tion, poverty and want, meeting the dread spectre 
of starvation, suffering death itself if need be, 
yet counting all not too great a price to pay for 
the freedom of their souls, this book is sympa- 
thetically dedicated. 


% 


CONTENTS, 


CHAP. 




PAGE 


Peeface 



. 7 

I. 

The Child and Her Own People 



. 13 

II. 

Where the Road Divides 



. 40 

III. 

Confidences and Questions . 



. 56 

IV. 

Her Story and Fate . 



. 74 

V. 

The End of the Dream 



. 92 

VI. 

The Butterfly 



. 110 

VII. 

Opportunity .... 



. 131 

VIII. 

Death’s Narrow Sea . 



. 148 

IX. 

Things not Dreamed of in 

Everyday 


Philosophy .... 



. 156 

X. 

“Ye Shall Not Understand” 



. 168 

XI. 

A Little Board Bridges the Great Gulf 

. 179 

XII. 

And the Prophet was Stoned 



. 202 

XIII. 

The Tongues of Angels 



. 218 

XIV. 

The Simple Way . 



. 240 

XV. 

It is Well with the Child 



. 248 

XVI. 

The Story of One Returned 

FROM THE 


Dead ..... 



. 254 

XVII. 

Uprooting a Human Tree . 



. 277 

XVIII. 

Bohemia’s Highways and Byways 


. 293 

XIX. 

The .Toys 



. 310 

XX. 

People of the Past 



. 317 

XXI. 

The Butterfly’s Flight 



. 331 

XXII. 

The Prop that Failed . 



. 340 

XXIII. 

The Book and its Critics . 



. 353 

XXIV. 

Who are They? . 



. 358 

XXV. 

Last Words .... 



. 379 


I 




PREFACE. 


The good old custom of the author telling his 
readers in a preface why he wrote his book, 
happily has not yet gone out of date. Though 
no particular friend to guide-board literature in 
general, I confess to a weakness for the preface. 
It has its helpful uses. There the author can 
talk directly to his readers, without filtering his 
thoughts through the brains of his characters; 
and in consequence the readers come into closer 
sympathy with him and understand him better. 
In not a few cases I have wished books were all 
preface. I hope others may not wish so in this 
case. 

In the preface we meet the author face to face, 
as it were, and he becomes ours or we become 
his at once. It is a little confidential glimpse 
into his soul, which he kindly gives us before we 
enter it by means of the book. 

Yes, I am decidedly in favor of the preface, 
both as reader and author. 

A time-honored method of prefatory writing, 
made the author assume a modesty that was self- 
depreciatory in the extreme. More often than 
not he warned readers off by throwing out hints 
disparaging his own ability. To such few read- 


8 


Preface. 


ers as he thought might follow him through the 
book in spite of his assurance that it would be 
unprofitable to do so, he apologized with the ut- 
most humility for the waste of their time and 
drain upon their patience for which he was about 
to be responsible. 

I shall do no such thing. On the contrary, I 
believe that he who reads this book will not find 
his time ill spent. Its theme is the most impor- 
tant that can engage the human race. It is my 
answer to the mightiest question ever pro- 
pounded. My answer. Its value extends that 
far and no farther. It is only insight into the 
ground of being that secures satisfaction and 
thorough knowledge.” My light may be only a 
rush-light ; but such as it is I obey the behest to 
let it shine. 

Says one of the greatest of modern philoso- 
phers: “If anything in the world is worth 
wishing for — so well worth wishing for that 
even the ignorant and dull herd in its more re- 
flective moments would prize it more than silver 
or gold — it is that a ray of light should fall on 
the obscurity of our being, and that we should 
gain some explanation of our mysterious exist- 
ence, in which nothing is clear but its misery and 
its vanity.” 

To each of us things are what they appear 
from each particular point of view. Our idea is 
our limitation. 


Preface. 


9 


He who writes a book presents to other minds 
a picture of life as it appears to him, from what- 
ever point of view he has chosen. His work por- 
trays both that which he sees outside himself 
and that which is within. It is a combination 
of himself and the world as he sees it, for of sub- 
ject and object are all things made. 

When we read a tale it is the author we learn 
to know, rather than his people ; but we know 
him through his people. They are the dwellers 
within his mind, and we cannot know them 
without entering that realm and knowing it, be 
it enchanted or disenchanting. 

Sight and insight make up all literature. 
Every book is a combination of the author and 
what he looks upon and studies objectively as 
well as subjectively. It is truth as he sees it. 

I have read many interesting works of fiction ; 
but for the most part I laid them down dissatis- 
fied. They lacked something for which I was 
always searching. They gave no answer to the 
questions that early began to trouble me — ques- 
tions that nobody could answer and few cared to 
be bothered with. Often they were very attrac- 
tive pictures of that which the world is to so 
many — a fool’s paradise. 

They dealt with the emotions of those whose 
lives they portrayed, and they appealed to the 
emotions of those who read them ; and all had 
ever the one, one theme — the pursuit of happi- 


10 


Preface. 


ness. And all pursuers saw the alluring phantom 
in the same shape, and gave chase to it by the 
same road. Sometimes they captured it, and 
then — the book ended. There was nothing else 
for the author to do when he reached that point, 
but to let the curtain drop and turn out the 
lights, lest his audience see that the happiness so 
hotly pursued was not the true thing after all ; 
but only an appearance, an illusion, a disappoint- 
ment, as veritable a phantom as ever — which 
left the one in possession of it no better off than 
he was before he captured it. 

Now the form of this phantom, was the love of 
the man and the woman for each other, and the 
possession of each by the other. Komances have 
been mostly amplified sex chases. They wrought 
upon the reader’s emotions through many har- 
rowing chapters, the end thereof being that a 
certain man married the particular woman he 
was pursuing. 

An old man whom I knew in my youth said he 
only read the first and last chapters of a novel. 
In the one he became acquainted with the 
hero and heroine; in the other he found out 
“ whether he got her or not.” By so doing he 
escaped much emotional wear and tear to which 
less discriminating readers subjected themselves. 
As we all know, sometimes he didn’t get her.” 
What then? Well, perhaps she died or he died, 
and that ended the story. Everybody accepted 


Preface. 


11 


that event as final and incontestable. That was 
the end, and nobody ventured to ask what lay 
behind it. It was the end of the successful as 
well as of the disappointed — the end of everybody 
in the world, yet nobody sought its meaning. 

In this respect the people outside of books were 
precisely like the people in books. They had the 
same ideal of happiness, chased it through the 
same difficulties and disasters, and would not 
admit that it was a phantom ; would not see that 
Death stalked behind every joy, sat at every 
feast, touched elbows right and left with the 
victorious as well as with the defeated, and waited 
for everybody under the sun. They knew it, of 
course, but they did not want to think about it 
or talk about it. 

And what was this spectre to which all closed 
their eyes because of terror ? Death was death. 
That was all they knew. It was the terrible and 
final thing that could happen. More; it was 
sure to happen ; but it must be put off as long as 
possible and ignored in the meantime. 

To me it ever was incomprehensible that so 
dreadful an issue was so hopelessly accepted and 
so little inquired into. 

I pondered much on this strange problem. The 
dream haunted my mind that somewhere there 
was a solution. 

I sought it everywhere from men and books ; 
but long without success. At last a ray of light 


12 


Preface. 


fell upon my path. Faithfully following it 
through years of earnest inquiry I learned that 
Death is not death. With that knowledge hap- 
piness took a new form and beckoned to me over 
a new road. 

Because of the new ideals it placed before me 
I wrote this book. Its people are my people ; its 
gospel my gospel. From the truth as I was led 
to see it I found a reason for my own being as 
well as for that of the book, and I have tried to 
give it to the reader as simply as it came to me. 

The psychical phenomena described are not 
exaggerated. Most of it came within my own 
experience, and would be accessible to any one 
who devoted to the study as much patience, time 
and effort as I did. 

There will be those who will give to the 
book only the sneer of conceited ignorance. 
For such I have no message. With them, . 
the first condition of all learning— receptively^ 
— is lacking. I make no argument. I try to 
convince no one. I simply tell a story. It 
will bear its own message to those ready to 
receive it. None else can understand. God Him- 
self cannot give us what we will not receive. 

The book is but a finger that aims to point out 
to others a moon that made glorious light for 
me. And if you will patiently look in the 
direction it points, you, too, will see the shining 
moon. The Author. 


PART 1. 


CHAPTEK I. 

THE CHILD AND HER OWN PEOPLE. 

There are some of us who in after years say to Fate, Now 
deal us your hardest blow ; give us what you will ; but let us 
never again suffer as we suffered when we were children.” 

The barb in the arrow of childhood’s suffering is this ; its 
intense loneliness, its intense ignorance . — Olive Schreiner, 

Under a great tree a child was singing softly 
to herself : 

Beautiful, dear, and noble old tree 

Bend your green branches caressing o’er me. 

For oh ! a day’s coming, and soon will be here, 

When I shall be far from your presence and cheer; 

And my heart will be lonely without your embrace, 
And you — ^you will long for a sight of my face. 

Your branches bend low to the ground, 

Bend low and caressingly, 

And they sway with a murmurous sound — 

A language of nature profound — 

Sway soft and caressingly. 

As they bend, with a sigh, to the ground. 

They chant the grand chorus of ages. 

In musical monotone ; 

And open the past’s mystic pages — 

The wonderful, solemn, sealed pages— 

So vaguely and dimly known. 

They sing me the song of the ages. 

13 


14 


An Index Finger. 


When I listen with spirit and soul 
To each swaying, whispering bough, 

The silent centuries backward roll 
And open before me like a scroll. 

And I view the “ Then as Now — 

When I listen with spirit and soul. 

She was lying on the grass, with her face 
toward the sky, which she could only see in spots 
through the tree’s thick branches, which hung 
low and swayed in the slightest breeze, with a 
motion that was very like a caress to one beneath 
them. A house stood near, but the tree com- 
pletely hid it on one side. One coming from 
the south saw only a beautiful grassy hill sur- 
mounted by a great green umbrella. 

Under this friendly shelter the Avoman-child 
lay, singing her own words to her own tunes. 
Oblivious to outward sounds, she heard no foot- 
steps until the branches parted and a stranger 
entered her temple. 

At this a dog that had been enjoying the pro- 
foundest of slumber near her, sprang to his feet 
with a great show of vigilance, making up for 
his tardiness by the most energetic barking. 

‘^Be quiet. Bliss,” said the child, rising to a 
sitting posture and looking steadily at the stran- 
ger, Avith the utmost composure. The dog at 
once became silent, but he went close to her and 
posed as on the defensive. 

‘‘I beg pardon,” said the intruder, politely 
raising his hat, “ I saAV no one, and thought to 


The Child and Her Own People. 15 

rest a bit in the shade, and get a cool drink of 
water, too.” 

“ The well is on the other side of the house,” 
she said, making a motion in that direction with 
a thin, nervous, unchildlike hand. Her words 
and manner expressed the utmost indilference — 
yet there was a gleam of interest in her big, clear 
eyes. 

The stranger moved on, murmuring thanks. 
She looked after him with a sudden yearning in 
her heart for his return. He was not of her 
world, that was sure ; and yet somehow it was 
quite clear to her that he was of her world — the 
world of her dreams, where she longed to be, 
fancied she had been, and from whence she had 
somehow sadly strayed. Yes, in that instant of 
contact she understood that in spite of all appar- 
ent difference their worlds were the same. 

In another moment he returned. Gracefully 
begging permission, he seated himself on the 
grass and leaned against the tree. His manner 
captivated her. It was respectful and deferential 
as to a woman grown. It enchanted her, for she 
was one of those misunderstood children who 
have thoughts and feelings far beyond their 
years and suffer great humiliation when treated 
patronizingly. 

“ You are not at all afraid of me although I 
came unannounced and unintroduced, are you ? ” 
he asked, half laughing. 


16 


An Index Finger. 

‘^Afraid? Why should I be? I am in my 
own door-yard. Besides, you don’t look like a 
wild beast, and if you were one, here is Bliss to 
take care of me.” 

“ Thank you. It’s a comfort to know you have 
no doubt that I am human. But what is this ? ” 
he asked, as a piece of cardboard blew toward 
him. Ah ! a drawing. May I look at it ? ” 

She nodded her consent. 

It was a pencil drawing of a woman’s head, 
and interested him at first glance, because, im- 
perfect though it was, it had that which makes 
art great when it is so — the human quality, the 
power to express its creator, the aim and object 
of all art. This penciled face gave an insight 
into the artist’s mind, showing that which she 
had tried to express and yet had not made clear. 
It showed the height to which she rose in fancy, 
and the long and rugged road between present 
performance and the perfection of which she 
dreamed. 

All this the stranger saw, because we see what 
is within ourselves. It takes genius to recognize 
genius. He had traveled the road on which she 
was taking her first feeble steps. 

“ Is it your work ? ” he asked. 

‘‘Yes,” she nodded, coloring faintly. It was 
plain that she expected no praise, yet longed for 
a helping word. 

“ Is it a copy ? ” he asked, for there was about 


The Child and Her Own People. 17 

it, although but half expressed, that which he 
thought must have been suggested by something 
from a master hand. 

“Ho.” 

“ Then who is it ? ” There was unaffected in- 
terest in his voice. 

“ One of my people,” she answered. 

“ Does she live here ? ” 

“ She is here sometimes, not always.” 

“Well, she must be a beautiful woman — even 
more beautiful than you depict her.” 

“You understand,” said the child. “I cannot 
put her on paper as I see her. I know but little 
of drawing, but I am always trying to draw faces 
— the faces of my own people — and trees, for 
they are my own people too; but I am never 
satisfied with my work. They do not get on the 
paper as they are in my mind.” 

“ Why not have some instruction ? ” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

The stranger understood, but in order not to 
seem to, he began to pick up some scattered 
leaves of paper near him. Seeing that they con- 
tained writing he was about to lay them down 
with an apology when the child said : 

“ It is a letter I have written to Helen, the 
woman whose picture you have just been looking 
at. You may read it, only not aloud. I 
couldn’t stand that.” 

“ But why should I read it at all ? ” he said, 


18 


An Index Finger. 


“ It would be impertinent on my part. Besides, 
I am not afflicted with the despicable vice of 
curiosity.” 

‘^If you don’t mind, I wish you would read 
it,” she said. “ It may help me. You will un- 
derstand when you have finished.” But she 
looked ill at ease, nevertheless. 

The stranger read : 

My deaely Beloved Helen: — Since you 
went away I am very lonely indeed. Hone 
other is so near and dear to me as you. I fill 
the hours with thoughts of you — thoughts so in- 
tense and absorbing that at times I actually see 
you by my side. But, alas! you do not stay 
when you come like that. You fade out of my 
sight ; you go back to your world and I cannot 
follow you only with my thoughts, my dreams, 
my love and my letters. 

But I shall go and find you some day. I shall 
be one of the people of your world, and shall be 
busy with work which shall fill my time, my 
brain and my heart. I shall meet all my people 
there — my very own people, and shall love them 
and work with them and know loneliness no 
more. I have a story to tell you. Dear Heart. 
It is this : 

In a world nameless to all mankind, lived a 
woman, sweet and fair. It was a beautiful 
world. There the men were all true and the 


The Child and Her Own People. 19 

women all faithful. Misery was unknown and 
none sought happiness, for all possessed it. 

But this one woman dreamed dreams and saw 
visions. She heard voices calling to her from 
another world — a world whose people sought 
continually and vainly to attain a condition they 
knew only in name, and which they called Hap- 
piness. All believed in the existence of this con- 
dition and gave chase to it, each in his own way, 
but none found it. Often hearing the voices of 
these unhappy people and seeing them in visions, 
this woman longed to go and help them. The 
longing disturbed the harmony of life in all her 
world, until it was decreed that she must leave it 
and go to that other whose vibrations of anguish 
had shaken the spheres. But they did not tell 
her of her destiny. She will know when she is 
there,” they said. 

So she slept, and the sleep was long in the eyes 
of the children of Time. 

When she awoke, memory was gone, and 
everything had to be learned over again. At 
first her consciousness was very dim, and her 
strength feeble, and having slept so long she 
could scarcely keep awake at all. 

But after a time a faint memory of the past 
came to her, and she saw that all was different 
from that other time, which now seemed like a 
dream. This was not the same world, nor were 
these the same people she had known, for she wr,3 


20 


An Index Finger. 

in the sad world she had seen in visions, whose 
people so persistently and often frantically 
sought Happiness and never found it — and that 
sad world was this in which we live. 

She was changed in appearance, too, for when 
she looked in a mirror she saw a face that was 
new to her and a tiny figure. She was like a 
child, and everybody called her a child, though 
to herself she seemed not to be a child, because 
part of her memory had come back, and it was 
the memory of a woman. 

It was very hard to feel like a full-grown per- 
son in mind and be treated like a creature with 
almost no mind at all. One of the most painful 
things she saw was that sometimes the most ig- 
norant and unfeeling were in positions of power 
over sensitive children. She suffered much from 
the very beginning of consciousness. 

To go back to the world she could so dimly re- 
member was her one dream. But when she 
spoke of it those about her laughed and said she 
had never been in any other world, because there 
was no other. 

Once in a dream she went back, or perhaps it 
was that some of her old friends came to her. 
They told her to be patient ; that she had been 
sent to help the unhappy ones who had so often 
called to her ; that scattered all over the planet 
in which she dwelt now were others like herself, 
who had come for the same purpose; that she 


The Child and Her Own People. 21 

would meet them from time to time and that 
would pay her for much of her pain. 

They said, too, that she had a particular work 
to do here and could not leave until it was done, 
but she must find out what it was herself ; that 
the road would often seem very hard and very 
long, but it had an end, and if she did her work 
well — 

There the dream ended ; but it comforted her, 
all unfinished as it was. 

By and by her childhood was gone. She was 
a woman, and went forth to find her work, ear- 
nest, enthusiastic and eager, and they said she 
had precious gifts. 

“ I will paint pictures,” she said, “ for always 
in my mind are noble faces and figures, like the 
gods when they walked among men, and these 
shall show mankind how glorious it can itself 
become.” 

Beautiful creations, perfect shapes of beauty 
came forth from her hand, but the world, for the 
most part, passed them by. It said, ‘^We see 
nothing in these,” and it spoke the truth, for that 
in them could only be seen by those like unto 
them. 

A few, however, stood before them filled with 
delight. They were people of the planet from 
which the artist came, and they recognized their 
kindred in the faces and forms she had depicted ; 
but she herself was never satisfied with what she 


22 


An Index Finger. 

had done. Within her mind, faces more glori- 
ous, and forms more perfect struggled for ex- 
pression. 

“ I have a tale to tell,” she said, “ that many 
will be glad to hear, for it contains help for all.” 
But again the world did not understand. It said, 
“ The people of this book are impossible people, 
and what is the author trying to say ? We see 
nothing in it.” A few only understood; but 
these were of her planet. 

“ Now,” she said, “ I wiU write again, and this 
time the world will read and be charmed. I 
will give it what it wants, not what I want to 
give it.” 

She spoke truly. She wrote and many were 
pleased ; but the people of her planet closed her 
book with pain in their faces, and she herself 
found no joy in it. To her conscience she made 
this excuse : “ I want bread and the easy, com- 
fortable things of life, and the world wants fool- 
ishness, so we exchange products. Some day I 
will write that which pleases myself. Then I 
shall make no concessions, no bids for favor. I 
shall say what I feel and think.” 

Time went on, and the world became inter- 
ested in new names, and almost forgot hers. 
Days of discouragement and distress arrived. 
The ease which she had bought by pleasing 
the commonplace, vanished, and loneliness, ill- 
health and poverty came in its stead. Weary 


The Child and Her Own People. 23 

and sick unto death in spirit and body, she longed 
to end it all, and so longing fell asleep, and sleep- 
ing dreamed. 

She saw again the faces of those from her 
other world who had come to comfort her when 
a child. One, the most beautiful of all, and yet 
just now the saddest, seemed nearer and dearer 
than the others. It was a glorious face, radiant 
with strength and sweetness, a type of perfect 
womanhood. All her life it had visited her in 
dreams and haunted her imagination. Some- 
times the name that belonged to it hovered on 
her lips, yet was never spoken, for it always 
vanished before it took shape in her mind. 

“ Did you find your work ? ” they asked. 

tried hard, dear friends,” she said. ‘‘I 
have not been idle.” But their faces showed no 

joy. 

“ Have I not done my work well ? ” she ques- 
tioned, beginning to be afraid. 

“ Have you given your best ? ” they asked. 

A flush of shame covered her face. Ho ; the 
world did not want it.” 

They were silent, and there was that in their 
eyes which made her more and more ashamed. 

“ I needed bread,” she said, anxious to make 
excuse. 

“ Is bread all that is worth striving for, that 
you paid for it so high a price ? ” they asked. 

She was silent. 


24 


An Index Finger. 

Did you come to please or help the people of 
this world ? ” they asked. 

“You told me long ago that I came to help,” 
she answered, “but they made it very hard. 
When I wrote that which burned within my 
soul they cared not to hear it, but wanted some- 
thing that entertained and diverted them from 
what they call the cares of life ; and I — well, I 
was often hungry-— so I gave them what they 
wanted.” 

“ And did they reward you ? ” 

“You see I have nothing,” she answered. 
“ For a time I had some of the possessions all 
value so much ; but they are gone.” 

“You tried to tell these people what you 
thought and felt, but they would not listen, you 
say; so you told them little foolish tales, like 
those that please children, but instruct not, help 
not, and thus you passed your life neglecting to 
unfold your own soul by expressing it truly. 
Only the weak and feeble of will, or the indolent 
and indifferent, turn back at the first obstacle. 
Where was your faith ? ” 

“ I sold it, as you see, for a pitiful price,” she 
answered, weeping. 

“ And were you satisfied ? ” 

“ Never. My conscience always lashed me. I 
have been punished already. Give me no fur- 
ther penance.” 

“ It is not ours to punish or pardon, nor in all 


The Child and Her Own People. 25 

the universe is there either punishment or par- 
don. There is only unchangeable, ever-active 
law. Had you done your work well ” — 

“ What is it to do one’s work well ? ” she inter- 
rupted. 

And now the woman of the glorious face came 
near and answered : It is to give the highest 

and best that is in you, without caring whether 
it wiU please or offend ; to express truth, as you 
see it, though the world be against you ; to pay 
whatever price is asked, though it be starvation 
and disgrace for the freedom of your soul, for 
the soul is only free when it faithfully follows its 
Ideal.” 

Then I know I have not done my work well,” 
said the woman, sadly. I seldom gave my best. 
I had not the courage. I was afraid the price I 
would have to pay would be too high. But what 
is the fate of those who do not do their work 
weU?” 

The faces of the company were full of pity, as 
they answered, They must do it over again.” 

Then the woman wept aloud. “ But not just 
yet,” they said. ‘^You are very tired; your 
strength is gone. You shall rest for a time.” 

Then one touched her eyes gently, and they 
closed to the light of this world ! 

Helen, dearest, I dreamed that story, and I 
was the woman who did not do her best. It al- 
ways seems to me that I lived long ago some- 


26 


An Index Finger. 

where — many lives perhaps. At times I can al- 
most remember scenes and people of that far-off 
time. It may be that it was right here in this 
world, and that I have been sent back to do 
what I left undone. Or it may be that here in 
this life I shall not do what I ought to do, and 
must come again. Ever with me is the thought 
that there is some particular thing for me to do 
and that I must make haste to find it and do it, 
because the time is short. 

Part of my work is to find my people — thy 
own people whom I knew in that far-away life, 
you are one of them, and — 

The stranger laid the unfinished letter down 
and looked curiously at the author. He had not 
observed her closely until then. He saw in her 
face that which is higher than beauty, but is only 
seen and understood by its spiritual kindred. 
The mouth, that unmistakable key to character, 
because it is the door through which the soul ex- 
presses itself, was perfect in shape and exquisitely 
sensitive, though the other features had a dash of 
boyish ruggedness in them. But the eyes, the 
dark grey eyes, mottled with tawn, had in them 
a look, indefinable, yearning, appealing, — a look 
that might have ages of suffering behind it — and 
perhaps before it — that went to the stranger’s 
heart like a knife, and filled his eyes with a mist. 
In after years more than one strong spirit lost its 


The Child and Her Own People. 27 

strength and wept it knew not why, before that 
flash-light of a soul. 

In the same moment the stranger saw another 
thing. It was that the child was entirely with- 
out self-consciousness and the consequent coquetry 
which so often spoils the manners of even very 
little women. She was not thinking how she 
appeared in his eyes. He could see that. It 
was nothing to her that her feet were naked, 
her hair twisted and her clothing crumpled. It 
was plain that these unconventional facts did 
not even present themselves to her mind. Her 
shoes and stockings and big straw hat lay near 
her on the grass, and she gave no sign of em- 
barrassment because she was not arrayed in 
them. She met him on the ground of mind to 
mind. In her shining, yearning eyes was an 
eager interest. 

“ A free, original, aspiring spirit,’’ he mused. 
‘‘ Life will be a rough pilgrimage for her. She 
will And it hard to shape herself to iron-clad 
standards. The vast army of the commonplace, 
unable to understand her, will claw at her like 
birds of prey. It is a pity that she must be 
bruised and beaten into the usual shape, as she 
surely will be. But the world is a relentless 
potter, with inflexible ideas of how its human 
jugs and vases are to be modeled ; and it shapes 
us all, in a measure, in spite of ourselves.” 

If the question isn’t impertinent, how old 


28 


An Index Finger. 

are you ? ” lie asked, with a cadence of melan- 
choly in his voice. 

“ Eleven ; but I feel very old sometimes. Old, 
old, old ! ” 

“ Yet you are not old enough to be writing of 
loneliness,” he said. 

“Ah; you think so? Can you imagine the 
loneliness of a child who is not altogether a child 
and yet not a woman ? ” 

“ Where are your dolls ? ” he asked, hoping to 
divert her mind from subjects too serious. 

Her handsome mouth curved into a sneer. 
“Dolls?” she echoed. “Dolls? Poor, miser- 
able little images made by stupid people to de- 
ceive those they believe to be stupider. Well, I 
have several. They were given to me by foolish 
friends who meant to be kind; but they live in 
boxes upstairs. I never get any good from them, 
wretched imitations of people that they are, with 
expressionless faces and stulfed bodies. I prefer 
my own people.” 

“ The lady of the picture and letter is one of 
them, you said. But of course they are not all 
grown up like her.” 

“Yes, they are, for I like grown-up people 
best. I don’t like those of my own age. At 
least I have seen but few whom I liked. The 
reason I am so fond of my own people, is because 
I make them myself, and so, of course, I make 
them to suit me. They are charming, and very 


29 


The Child and Her Own People. 

fond of me. You would call them unreal ; but to 
me they are more real than the flesh and blood 
people hereabouts, and much more agreeable.” 

“Ah! I understand now,” said the stranger. 
“ They are your own people in the sense of being 
congenial, companionable, of your own way of 
thinking. You have gone direct to a great truth, 
little friend. Our own people are those with 
whom we are in intellectual sympathy, no mat- 
ter where we find them.” 

“ But your other people,” he went on, after a 
short pause, motioning with his hand toward the 
house, “ your family, — you love them, too ? ” 

“ Ho ; we don’t love each other,” she answered, 
frankly ; “ we seem not to fit well together — not 
to be thinking the same thoughts. The most of 
me is completely shut away from them. I can- 
not talk to them as I am talking to you. They 
would laugh at me ; they would ridicule me, and 
that enrages as well as hurts me. And they are 
going away one by one, interested in their own 
lives and knowing nothing of my dreams and 
longings. Two of my sisters married recently 
and have gone far away, and last week my oldest 
brother left. I watched him out of sight as he 
went down the road, with my heart almost burst- 
ing. So it was when the others went. Every- 
thing was desolate without them, and they will 
never be back here again in the old way. Hot 
that the old way was so good, for it wasn’t, but 


30 


An Index Finger. 

I could not bear to see Mie end. I suffer if only 
an animal dies or is taken away. And I always 
wanted to love them; but they did not under- 
stand.” 

The stranger’s eyes grew pitiful, not so much 
for what she had suffered as for what she was 
destined to suffer. He saw her as she was, and 
as no other had seen her, none having the power 
to understand, — a sensitive, affectionate, aspiring 
soul, held for a time in a place alien to her spirit, 
among people most truly not her own. 

‘‘Another,” he said, mentally, “destined to 
travel the rough road that leads to the heights. 
Another with a dash of the weightiest gift of the 
gods. I did not think to find one of the climb- 
ers of Olympus here. Yet where none dreams 
to find them there they are. Poor little soul 
touched with the wand of genius, already living 
in a world of her own creation, because the other 
world is ungenial and intolerable, and longing 
for sympathy, which is recognition, appreciation, 
and encourages expression, which is life itself. 
The old, old spirit in the new body, not compre- 
hended, often wounded, yet striving, striving, 
always striving against hard conditions to tell 
what it feels. 

“ But you have some friends of your own age 
among the real people — those we call real — have 
you not ? ” 

“Yes; and I play with them sometimes in 


The Child and Her Own People. 31 

their way ; but in a little while I am tired of 
them, and am generally glad when they are gone, 
so that I can be with the friends I have been 
telling you about. But I have one comrade of 
•-my own age whom I love. She talks very little ; 
but she understands. We often spend whole 
days together away from everybody. She doesn’t 
fit into her family much better than I do in mine, 
but she is happier, because her family are kinder 
than mine. They love each other better.” 

The stranger was struck with the simple and 
forceful analysis of the difference between the 
two families. 

“ When people love each other they are kinder, 
as a matter of course,” he said, feeling that he 
was guilty of the stupidest of platitudes, but anx- 
ious to keep the young philosopher talking. But 
your family love you, surely ? ” 

“Ho,” she said, decisively, the mottled eyes 
showing a flash of pain so intense that he turned 
away. 

“ What makes you think so ? ” 

“ They find fault with me all the time. It is a 
terrible thing to be blamed always and never 
praised. When I am grown, should I have 
power, should I be able to get others to listen to 
me, I shall tell them that if they want to make 
people better they must praise them. Fault-find- 
ing helps nobody. I am sure of that. It is the 
worst possible thing for me, for it fills my heart 


32 


An Index Finger. 

with rage and a sense of injustice, and of course 
it has the same effect on everybody else. I can 
see plainly enough what would make an angel of 
me, and angels of all others, too. Love and praise 
are what is needed. What couldn’t I be and do if 
they only loved me and saw good in me, and told 
me so. But to be nagged, and blamed, scolded, 
rebuked and humiliated incessantly is making me 
wicked in my mind all the time. I know how 
devils are made. They just take a child, neither 
better nor worse than others, and put it some 
place where it hears nothing but blame all the 
time, never a Avord of love or praise, and when 
it is grown up it is a devil, ready to give back 
the pain that had been inflicted on it. If it were 
not for my own people, my thought people, I 
could not endure life at all.” 

“A bad case,” said the stranger to himself, 
Avith a sigh, “heart and intellect both hungry. 
I fear the road Avill be very rough. 

“ Why did you let your friend Helen go away ? 
Since she is your oAvn creation, AA'hy not keep her 
here at Avill, when you are so fond of her ? ” 

“ She is my OAvn creation, but I could not keep 
her here. She has her oAvn life to live, so she 
Avent back to the world from Avhich I dreAV her, 
for I do truly belicA’^e aAvay doAvn inside of me, 
that she is Avhat you call real. Just now she is 
in Paris, and she is a famous author, but not too 
conceited to love me and find pleasure in talking 


33 


The Child and Her Own People. 

and writing to me. I was willing she should go 
away, as it gives me an opportunity of writing 
to her. I enjoy writing even more than talkr 
ing, sometimes. I get letters from her often. I 
have a box full of them. Of course I have to 
write them myself, but after they are written it 
really seems that she, not I, is their author, and 
I enjoy reading them just as other folks enjoy 
sure-enough letters that come from the post of- 
fice.’’ 

How do you send letters to your people ? ” 
The yearning eyes became grave. “ Well, that 
is awkward. I leave them in queer little places 
Avhere big, bad, real people are not apt to find 
them — at the root of a fiower, in the crevice of a 
wall, or under a stone — and persuade myself that 
somehow they reach their destination. Some- 
times I carry them clear to the Avoods and leave 
them in hollow trees, or under great, cool rocks, 
Avhere, perhaps, there are fairies or some kind of 
invisible messengers who will transport them for 
me. 

But when it rains, now and then, they are 
washed out of their places, and I find them all 
Avet and blurred. Then a chilly feeling comes 
over me, and I am half afraid that, after all, my 
people have not seen them. You see it hurts me 
if I think nobody reads them. That’s Avhy I 
Avanted you to read my letter to Helen. I felt 
sure you Avould understand.” 


34 


An Index Finger. 

“You have many of these unseen friends of 
yours ? ” asked the stranger. 

“ Yes, many ; but Helen is my only confidante. 
Of course I am not a little girl when I am with 
my people. I am grown up, and am important, 
for I, too, am a famous writer, and I paint the 
most wonderful pictures. Yes, I have great fame 
and the wisest and most distinguished people are 
pleased to be received by me, and they — well, — 
they hang upon my words.” 

“ Of course,” said the stranger. 

“ It is beautiful,” continued the child, “ to be 
treated with consideration. When will big folks 
learn that little ones are human beings like them- 
selves, with the same feelings exactly, and that 
they can’t respect themselves if they are ordered 
about rudely, scolded, snubbed and generally 
treated as inferior beings ? ” 

She was enjoying the first appreciation the 
world had accorded her ; was breathing the air 
of her dreams, the congenial atmosphere which 
is only found where there are sympathetic souls 
to breathe it with us. 

The stranger, understanding, thought of “ how 
widely yawns the moat that girds a human 
soul,” whose “real world is always an invisible 
place, removed from the rush and chatter of 
crowds, for the most important portion of life is 
the secret and solitary portion.” 

“ Are your people all Avomen, or do you permit 


35 


The Child and Her Own People. 

poor, imperfect, earthly man to enter your para- 
dise ? ” he asked. 

“ Our world is made up of human beings, and 
of course that means men and women,*’ she re- 
plied. “It would be a stupid place if it con- 
tained only women or only men. But our men 
are men, not merely creatures who pass as such, 
like so many one sees Avalking about here. And 
yet, I must confess that the men of my thought 
world are not quite so real to me as the women. 
I want to make them excellent, perfect ; but I 
don’t succeed. AVhen I get them just so far 
along, I seem unable to complete them, and so 
they are more or less dim and shadowy to me.” 

“ Ah, I see,” said her listener. “ Your ideal of 
mankind is too high for even your imagination 
to give form to. What are these men like who 
still seem dim to you ? Some of them are knights 
and lords of high degree, or kings, perhaps ? ” 

“ISTo; we don’t care for that kind. They 
would be too conceited for our world. We don’t 
like fighters, either. We have great men, of 
course, but they have earned their laurels ; but 
even then they don’t talk about themselves, till 
they tire one all out like living men do. But 
we will not have any who are not truthful, and 
then they are courageous, for liars are always 
cowards, you know. And then, they are kind, 
very kind to everybodjq and they don’t think 
themselves better than women. We couldn’t 


36 


An Index Finger. 

stand that, especially as our women are all so 
magnificent. I’m one of them, you know.” 

It was beautiful to him to see her so frankly 
reveal herself as she saw herself. “ Your men do 
something, I suppose, — something more than to 
be merely agreeable ? ” he said. 

“We all work, but we dream too, and the 
dreamers are prized as highly as the workers if 
they dream good dreams.” 


“ For a dreamer lives forever, 

And a toiler dies in a day,” 

hummed the stranger softly. 

Then in memory he turned to the past, mur- 
muring, “Bohemia, thy grapes are sweet.” 

He saw again its hot and dusty highways, its 
tangled byways and the long procession traveling 
thereon. One by one they passed him in review, 
some with road-worn feet, faded garments and 
weary eyes ; some stepping lightly, with joy in 
their hearts and fiowers in their hands. There 
Avere the hopeful, the mirthful, the witty and the 
merry. There, too, were the baffled and beaten, 
the hopeless and the joyless. The successful Avent 
by Avith proud mien, and smiling face, and they 
who had failed also bore themselves erect and 
smiled, that the Avorld might not dream of the 
pain at their hearts. “ Their heads Avere bloody 
but unbound.” 

Grapes greAV abundantly overhead, but a feAA"^, 


The Child and Her Own People. 37 

only a very few of the many travelers gathered 
them. He saw it all in memory as he had seen 
it all in reality. How, as one by one the strug- 
gling, striving throng, dowered with the fateful 
gift of genius, passed again before him, he saw 
that 


** Their faces all showed suffering, 

Though no Toice uttered plaints. 

How courageous they had been ! How faithful ! 
Hot a few had met starvation face to face, and 
even that dread sight had not power to turn 
them from the pursuit of their ideals. Again 
and again he had seen the bravest and brightest 
fall, their aim unattained, their hands empty, 
their names unrenowned, their hearts broken. 
But now he saw, as by a revelation,' that the 
defeated were victors too. 

Putting his hand over his eyes as if to shut out 
the sight of the striving, suffering throng, he 
groaned mentally, for here in this quiet spot, far 
from the great centres of life, was another get- 
ting ready for a pilgrimage on the same hot, 
dusty road. 

The child was the first to break the silence into 
which they had fallen. 

‘‘My own people are somewhere in the real 
world, I am sure, and I must go and find them,’’ 
she said. “ I was singing about it to this dear 
old tree when you came, for when I go the tree 


38 


An Index Finger. 

will miss me and be lonely. We are great 
friends. I tell it many things, and it answers by 
waving its branches over me — see, like that, and 
I understand.” 

“ You are eleven years old,” said the stranger, 
“ and are eager to go and find your people. I am 
many, many years older and yet have found very 
few of mine. The search is long and sometimes 
heart-breaking, but it has to be made. But re- 
member one thing, and forget it not, I pray you. 
If you have some dream in your mind dearer 
than all others — some thought that burns to 
spring forth into life — be faithful to it, for it is 
your ideal. Follow it at any cost. Your story 
of the woman who did not do her best contains 
a great philosophical truth. Somewhere, some- 
time we are destined to reach a state where our 
dreams shall come true, where we shall have the 
desire of our hearts, where we shall be in accord 
with all beauty and all good. But we can only 
reach that state by doing our best every day — 
in little things and great. If we do less we sWl 
have to do it over again. 

“One is with you who always knows, it is 
your soul — ^your real self. When you want to 
find your work, when you are ready to tell what 
you feel, ask not the world what it wants, but 
say to your soul, ‘ What wilt thou have me to 
do?’” 

She looked at him admiringly, gratefully, and 


The Child and Her Own People. 39 

said, “ I thank you. I know you are wise, for 
you come from the big, busy world that I long 
to enter, and shall enter. There one can see and 
learn everything. Less than a mile away two 
railroads cross each other. I hear the locomo- 
tives whistle every day as they pass, dragging 
people after them. I shall go, too, some day, 
and then, and then ” — 

“And ihen^'^ said the stranger, sighing; but 
she did not understand. How could she ? 

“ And then I shall be happy,” she added. 

“You must find me when you come into my 
world,” he continued, after a pause. “ Perhaps I 
am one of your own people. At any rate, the 
great world knows me a little. How I must 
leave you and go back to where the two rail- 
roads cross. My train was hours behind time, 
otherwise I should not have had the pleasure of 
meeting you. I assure you I shall not forget 
you, and when you come into my world I shall 
know you for one of us, even as I know you 
now.” 

They had risen as he spoke. He took her slen- 
der, sunburned hand in his, bent down, kissed it 
and was gone. 

“He is truly one of my very own people,” 
said the child to herself, as she watched him out 
of sight. “ How I am sure they live somewhere, 
and I shall find them and know them as soon as 
I see them, and shall be happy.” 


40 


An Index Finger. 


CHAPTEE 11. 

WHERE THE ROAD DIVIDES. 

“O Urania! the earth and the air and the sea 
And the infinite spaces are vocal with thee, 

And the sunset and moonrise seraphic with thee.” 

— Ben S. Parker. 

The tall young man alone on the porch walked 
slowly back and forth, looking oflf into the sweet 
spring sunshine, with troubled eyes. 

He stopped and his face flushed with pleasure 
as a young girl dressed for the street came out 
of the door. 

“You here, Mr. Kendall?’’ she said, interrog- 
atively. “ You toil not neither do you spin to- 
day ? How’s that ? ” 

“ Because I am weary and fain would rest,” he 
answered. “ Yes, and I fain would do several 
other things, too; but I dare say I shall not. 
But you have been idling lately, too. Why so ? ” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “ Like yourself I 
am weary and fain would do — I scarcely know 
what, and go I scarcely know where.” 

“Do you mind my asking whither you are 
bound just now ? ” 

“ Not at all,” she answered, pleasantly, “ only 
I can’t say definitely, because I don’t know. I 


Where the Eoad Divides. 


41 


shall probably fetch up at the nearest open square 
where there is some green grass on which I can 
rest my eyes a bit, and either lose myself or find 
myself for a little while.” 

“ May I go with you ? ” He made the request 
a little timidly, for she had a high-handed way 
with him that made him a little afraid of her, 
though she attracted him with resistless force. 

“ I shall be pleased.” Her voice had a sincere 
ring in it that fiushed his face with pleasure. 
‘‘ You are always a good companion, because you 
don’t tire me talking too much.” 

“ A dubious compliment, but I am grateful for 
it, nevertheless. Though if it be intended as a 
hint for me to keep silent this morning it will not 
be taken, that’s all.” 

They walked away together with the manner 
of persons accustomed to seeing much of each 
other. 

The wide old streets had birds twittering in 
the trees, and sunshine warm upon them. The 
air was soft and mild, and brought with it the 
gentle melancholy peculiar to spring, a melan- 
choly that creates or awakes a strange unrest, 
and makes us long to go journeying to far coun- 
tries, we know not why. 

Each of these two were touched by the spirit 
of this unrest. They spoke of the beauty of the 
day, of the joy of idling now and then, so sweet 
to busy people, but soon fell into silence, for 


42 


An Index Finger. 

their thoughts were not with their words. The 
young man’s eyes became misty from time to 
time, though his companion saw it not, for she 
did not look at his face. He was thinking that 
in after years he should often recall this walk. 
On his mind he was painting every object his 
eyes encountered, that he might treasure it as a 
comforting picture in the possible lonely future. 

After wandering about awhile they sat down 
in a tiny park near a fountain, and idly watched 
the water spraying in the sunshine. 

“ How long have you been here. Miss Hill ? ” 
Kendall asked abruptly. 

Four years,” she answered, tossing a pebble 
into the fountain and showing little interest in 
anything but her own thoughts. 

And I five.” 

As she said nothing, presently he went on: 
^‘Now, I want you to do me a service, a real 
service. I want you to decide a question, an 
important question for me, and I have deter- 
mined to abide by your decision, whatever it may 
be. Yes, I will do exactly as you say.” 

Expecting a word or look of interest from her, 
he paused ; but she went on drawing lines on the 
gravel walk with her parasol, in silence. Being 
of the large, fair type of man, his face flushed 
with every emotion. Just now he colored deeply 
because of her apparent unconcern, but con- 
tinued : 


Where the Road Divides. 


43 


“ There are times in each life when it is nec- 
essary to do one of two things. Until we reach 
this point we get on very well, and are untroubled 
by doubts. But when we have to decide whether 
to keep the right hand road or take the left, then 
we look about for something or somebody to cast 
the die for us. The doing is always compara- 
tively easy ; it’s the deciding that muddles and 
troubles us. Now I have come to the place 
where the road divides, and I want some help on 
the decision.” 

She looked up at him now with unaffected in- 
terest. 

“ I am thinking that I ought to strike out and 
do something better than I am doing, — be some- 
thing more than a cog in a great machine. I am 
tired of that. In the office over there ” — making 
a motion with his hand in the direction of the 
commercial part of the city — “are men who 
would faint, I am sure, or weep like children, if 
they should lose their situations, such cowards 
have they become by long dependence on the 
weekly salary. Some have been there years, and 
have given their manhood as well as their time 
in exchange for the money they pocket every 
Saturday. They act like slaves in the presence 
of their employer. If he had bought them at 
the auction block they could not be more cring- 
ing to him. When he is in sight self-respect 
withers and they are mere worms, crawling in 


44 


An Index Finger. 

spirit at his feet. I don’t want to become like 
that, and yet I am sure to if I remain. That sort 
of thing is contagious. No man can stand for- 
ever against it. I know just enough of the de- 
grading feeling to be willing to make a sacrifice 
to avoid familiarity with it. In reality the 
wage-earner and the man who hires him engage 
in a form of cooperation, each to be respected by 
the other; but the relation is universally mis- 
understood. The employer develops into an au- 
tocrat and the employee into a serf, and so both 
are injured. To be an employee too long is to 
become a dependent, helpless, pitiable being, a 
degenerate man. I am sure of it. Believing 
that, I feel I must escape from such direful con- 
sequences. 

“ Yet it takes courage to voluntarily give up 
what they call a good salary, and go into the 
wilderness, so to speak, and take the risks that 
all that implies. A ship sails from New York 
for San Francisco day after to-morrow. I have 
been thinking I would resign my situation and 
take passage on her. The territories are big and 
full of opportunities. I thought to go to one of 
them and carve out life for myself on broader 
lines, if possible. I have a little money, and I 
can still put forth effort. As I have no family 
to consult — not a relative in the world — and 
being on the fence, as it were, in the matter of 
deciding, I have a fancy for leaving it to you and 


Where the Eoad Divides. 


45 


will do what you say. Tell me, shall I go or 
stay ? ” 

She looked at him with something like admi- 
ration shining in her eyes. 

‘‘ Go,” she said, unhesitatingly. “ Go, and be 
an individual, a fully developed unit, a man, not 
a mere cog in somebody else’s wheel. Cogs have 
their uses, but they have also their limitations, 
and they are so plentiful. You can be a Avhole 
machine, if you try. Yes, go and be a figure in 
the world, on your own account, not simply a 
cipher, useful only as auxiliary to the figures.” 

Good ! ” he said, with forced emphasis, mak- 
ing a brave effort to appear delighted, but in his 
heart wishing he could hide somewhere and take 
it out in a hearty schoolboy blubber. “ Day after 
to-morrow at this time I shall be aboard my ship.” 

He knew that her decision was wise, but it 
pained him that she was so ready to send him. 
And then, there was the ordeal of parting from 
her, a tug of war he could not calmly face. 

“You should go for the sake of preserving 
your self-respect,” she continued, “lest in time 
you become like the slavish wretches by whom 
you are surrounded, and also to preserve your 
life if you care for it. Two years more here 
bent over your desk in dingy, close rooms, and 
you will be hopelessly ill of consumption.” 

“ I have thought of that,” he said, “ and it has 
something to do with my wish to get away.” 


46 


An Index Finger. 

“Well, when you go elsewhere, don’t make the 
mistake of beginning the same kind of life over 
again. Don’t imprison yourself, and don’t hire 
yourself out to any man. The air of the West 
will not save you unless you breathe it fresh and 
pure. Live outdoors as much as possible. How 
hideous is this habit of herding in cities — hideous 
and hurtful ! How sensible of you to think of 
going where there is breadth, freedom and out- 
look in all senses of the words; but I am sur- 
prised, because I never heard you express any 
discontent.” 

“ To be honest, I had very little — too little for 
my own good,” he said, coloring deeply. “ It has 
cost me a struggle to force myself to think of go- 
ing. Don’t forget that it is you Avho are sending 
me after all ; but for you I swear I should not go.” 

“ I am sure I am doing you a service,” she an- 
swered, “ though I shall miss you, as a matter of 
course.” 

“ And you, what of your future ? You advise 
me to leave this plodding existence, where there 
is neither growth nor freedom, and go where I 
can be more than I ever can be here ; but you 
are passing your life in exactly the same jog- 
along way.” 

“ I— oh ! I, too, shall be gone some day.” As 
she spoke she smiled, looking afar off. 

“ If I make a place for you will you come ? ” 
he asked. 


Where the Eoad Divides. 


4Y 


There was nothing lover-like in his voice or at- 
titude, yet he loved the girl beside him with a 
faithful, dog-like, worshipful affection. Not lov- 
ing him, and not having a grain of coquetry or 
even vanity in her, she had never been aware of 
it. Even now, when his meaning became plain 
to her, she did not make a situation of it, or give 
it the slightest shading of the sentimental. En- 
tirely unmoved herself, she knew not what the 
avowal cost him, made in the face of defeat, as 
he well knew beforehand. 

‘‘Oh, dear, no,” she said, simpljq without a 
shade more or less of feeling in face or voice. 
“ If I were a man, yes, I would go ; but as it is, 
no. Be grateful that you are a man and have no 
hampering, cramping sex limitations to work 
against in the public mind if not in your own. 
You are free to go where you will and to do 
what you wish, and if it be but half-way well 
done, both fools and wise will chirrup your 
praises. One thing I ask of you. Throughout 
your life, never lose an opportunity of helping 
womankind to a freer, better, broader life. Do 
this in memory of me, and if I meet you in the 
future, either here or on the other side of life — 
should there be another side — I shall not fail to 
thank you.” 

“ I promise, and doubtless shall do more than 
that, in memory of you.” The last words had a 
quaver of agony in them, which she did not sense. 


48 


An Index Finger. 

“I have been growing restless of late, too. 
Some day I shall be gone — perhaps before long.” 
She looked afar off with dreamy eyes as she 
spoke, and Kendall’s heart ached as he realized 
at last, that in the future of her dreams he had 
no part or place. 

‘‘ Do not forget, wherever you may be, that I 
am always your loyal, humble servant,” he said, 
gently. 

‘‘ I am sure of that, and I thank you,” she an^ 
swered, with kindness in her voice. 

It was like the man -that he did not try to 
relieve his almost bursting heart by talking of 
his love for her, even though it was without 
hope, but he understood none of the arts of Eros, 
and was disciplined in repression. 

In truth, it was preposterous that he should 
dream of winning this woman, and in a vague 
way he always knew it ; yet he had dreamed. 
From the day he first saw her she had enthralled 
him, an achievement of which she seemed alto- 
gether unconscious, though everybody else read 
it clearly enough. 

They had met daily in their common home, a 
boarding-house, for four years. They had en- 
joyed concerts, plays and lectures together ; had 
walked and talked together and been good com- 
rades and yet had never agreed. Nothing under 
the sun did they see from the same point of view, 
and the topic upon which they thought alil^e had 


Where the Road Divides. 49 

never been found. In spite of this, Kendall pa- 
tiently worshipped at her shrine. Had he not 
been of the steady, hopeful, never-give-up brand 
of lover, he would have lost heart long before. 
But he had the confidence of the self-satisfied and 
shortsighted, and a heart that held on to its 
fancies with the desperate clutch that wins some- 
times when finer methods fail. 

To his credit be it said that while his devotion 
was open and above-board, for all the world to 
see, he was never obtrusive. Early in his ac- 
quaintance with his torturer he had learned to 
take a third or fourth place about her candle and 
make no fuss. He was at her service whenever 
she needed him, and always out of the way when 
she didn’t need him. 

Many a night he had climbed to his fourth- 
story room, humming a cheery song, while his 
heart was being gnawed in holes by the monster 
J ealousy, all because Miss Hill was chatting and 
laughing in the parlor with some of the other 
moths who circled about her. When chaffed 
about his ill-requited devotion, he laughed it off, 
and said he was happy to be tolerated at all. To 
himself, as a matter of graveyard whistling, he 
said : “ It is a question of waiting. She cares 

for none of them. When she tires of them she 
may think of me. Meanwhile I think of her be- 
cause I can’t help it.” 

He kept this up for four years. Then a rest- 


50 


An Index Finger. 

lessness of spirit came upon him; the unseen 
forces of destiny began to work upon his mind 
and urge him to go forth, he knew not where. 
Yet how could he go out of the sight of her, vol- 
untarily ? There was but one thing that would 
give him the required courage, and that was to 
make her bid him go. Then he could feel that, 
at least, he was obeying her, hence his little plan 
of having her cast the die. It might comfort 
him in the future. 

The four years of their life together under the 
same roof rolled through Kendall’s mind in pan- 
orama, and filled his heart to bursting. The 
daily sight of the girl beside him had sweetened 
the days — had been life itself to him, for she 
radiated light and life, like a sun. That she did 
not love him, mattered little in that moment. 
The years in which he had lived in her presence 
could not be taken from him. Eemembering 
this his spirit was lifted up, and the poor, com- 
mon, selfish ambition to possess her vanished, 
and the joy of having known and loved her took 
its place. 

He looked at her long, earnestly, adoringly, 
photographing her on the fadeless walls of mem- 
ory that he might carry the picture with him 
through all the years to come. 

‘‘I want to make a confession to you. Miss 
Hill,” said Kendall, when he thought the mental 
photograph of her was complete. ^^You have 


Where the Koad Divides. 


51 


converted me to broader views, not by words, 
but by your daily life. I see you filling a useful 
place, unaided, in a profession that only men, 
heretofore, to my knowledge, have attempted. 
You not only succeed, but you excel most of your 
male co-workers. You make as much money as 
any of them, and you have more brains, and you 
command everybody’s respect. Thinking over 
these things, I am ashamed to remember that I 
thought I ought to vote, but women must be kept 
from it at all hazards. Your example has en- 
lightened me by taking some of the masculine 
conceit out of me. I feel small and mean that I 
in my insignificance should have thrown a straw 
in the path of women like you.” 

“ I am glad your mental horizon has widened,” 
she said. “ It will be a pleasure to think of you 
as one of my converts. I may never make an- 
other, unless, as in this case, it be done by exam- 
ple and not argument. I begin to believe that 
discussion availeth little. When I hear poor, un- 
developed beings fighting the ideas that would 
make them free, I do nothing to convert them to 
my way of thinking, I just silently say, ‘ May God 
enlighten them,’ for that’s all that can be done, 
and the enlightening process is usually slow.” 

“ I remember now,” he said, “ that I haven’t 
been able to draw you into a discussion in many 
a day. I suppose you saw it was a hopeless case 
and just simply prayed for my enlightenment.” 


52 


An Index Finger. 

Yes ; and it has come sooner than I expected. 
So now I am more than ever persuaded that 
argument is useless. None can be taught until 
ready to learn. ‘ Except ye become as little chil- 
dren ’ — receptive, teachable, ready for light — ap- 
plies to entering all kingdoms as well as the heav- 
enly one.” 

“While I am confessing,” said Kendall, “I will 
tell you that I used sometimes to take sides 
against you for the pleasure of hearing you ex- 
press yourself — you do it so well.” 

She looked at him and her eyes made him 
ashamed, as she said: “That was not kind. I 
was always in earnest. However, I am learning 
a little more about human nature every day. I 
shall soon cease to be a Galatea, I think.” 

“No; it was not kind nor honest, but I did 
not realize it until this moment, and now I ask 
your pardon. Many of the offences of us men 
are the outcome of ignorance rather than mean- 
ness. W e know no better. Our conceit has stood 
in the way of our enlightenment. Forgive all 
my shortcomings, and remember my defects no 
more. Be a little kinder still and do one other 
service for me. Bead me my future.” 

“ I am no occultist,” she answered, laughing. 

“No matter. I have a fancy for believing you 
are for the time being. Tell me what lies ahead. 
It may keep up my courage. Since you are my 
confessor, I don’t mind telling you that there are 


Where the Eoad Divides. 


53 


moments when I feel a childish cowardice about 
what I may have to meet, and wish I could run 
away from it all and hide forevermore.” 

‘‘ That recalls a bit of rhyme 1 read years ago 
which has always stuck in my memory,” she 
said : 


“ ‘What is Life, Father? A battle, my child, 

Where the strongest arm may fail ; 

Where the wariest eye may be beguiled. 

And the stoutest heart may quail.* 

’Tis no shame to admit that one’s courage is not 
always high. No one lives always on the heights. 
I know something about those moments of child- 
ish cowardice you speak of ; but there, I belong 
to the sex that is supposed to have the right to 
be cowardly — we are even driven to it. Cour- 
age brings reproach upon us, while the more we 
shrink and cower and quail and complain the 
more Svomanly’ we are said to be. What a 
fine outlook for the human race ! But as to your 
future. Now I am an astrologer and must draw 
your horoscope.” (This was accomplished by 
scratching several circles on the walk with the 
end of her parasol.) ‘‘ There, the rings and dots 
and figures all mean tremendous things. I shall 
not weary you, however, by telling you the why 
and wherefore of everything. I shall stick to 
facts. Here goes: I see a journey by water 
which ends where the sun sets. You will meet 
disappointments and difficulties; will know pri- 


54 


An Index Finger. 

vations and dangers, and also that most dreadful 
form of homesickness — the homesickness of one 
who has no home. But you will overcome all 
obstacles and be what is called successful ; you 
will find your place and hold it. You will be- 
come bigger and stronger in body and in char- 
acter, and you will nemr come hacJc here,’^^ 

“ And the indescribable thing called Happi- 
ness ; has it no place in my horoscope ? ” he 
asked, after a pause. 

‘‘Is it not included in the thing called Suc- 
cess ? ” she answered. “ Can the defeated be 
happy ? ” 

“ On the whole your reading is not half bad, 
as the English say, when they want to compli- 
ment a thing, and I believe in it.” Yet he sighed 
as he spoke. The promised success was not al- 
luring, meaning as it did, lifelong separation 
from the sun that warmed his life. 

Still he was in dead earnest when he said he 
believed in her prophecies. Long ago he had 
made up his mind that this girl was his fate — not 
in the sense that she was likely to unite her life 
to his. He had never been honestly hopeful of 
that in spite of his steady perseverance ; but it 
seemed to him that in some way she was to di- 
rect his life, to be the star of his destiny, as it 
were. And never was that belief stronger upon 
him than now when he knew that the end of 
their daily association had come. 


Where the Koad Divides. 


55 


Eising, she said, Let us each cast a pebble in 
the pool of this fountain and see whose circles 
will last longer.” 

As they watched the rings widen, multiply 
and vanish until those made by her pebble had 
obliterated his, he said, 

“ There ! Your spirit will trouble the waters 
of life to greater purpose than mine and longer. 
It needs no divination to tell that.” 

When they went back to the house they met 
Westfield coming out. “ Will she eventually 
throw herself away on him?” was the query 
Kendall put to himself. 

At the breakfast table next morning Kendall’s 
chair was vacant, and the place was to know 
him no more under the sun. 


56 


An Index Finger. 


CHAPTEE III. 

CONFIDENCES AND QUESTIONS. 

Too weak to change, though a mental hell 
To me the role of clown ; 

A coward bound by a self- wrought spell, 

I wait the sound of the prompter’s bell 
Which rings the curtain down,” 

Sunday’s restfulness was in the air. Miss 
Hill and Westfield sat in the shade of the great 
tree in the yard, with books and newspapers 
about them. Nothing was more delightful to 
Westfield than to hear her read aloud. She had 
a voice of great natural sweetness, with no arti- 
ficial notes in it. In truth there was no artifice 
in her character. 

The man beside her to-day was one of whom 
poor Kendall had often been bitterly jealous, a 
man of finer fibre than his rival, greater charm 
and graver defects. Older, he was also wiser, 
particularly in melancholy wisdom. 

“Bead me something,” he said, “some wild 
wail from a tortured poet. There are always 
plenty, and I like ’en, no matter how woful 
they are. God bless the poets every one, high 
and humble. They help us out in the dreary 
business of life.” 

She read : 


Confidences and Questions. 


57 


White- footed the snow comes, 

O’er the hills of beauty, 

Treading like a penitent 
Kough paths of duty.” 

“ Wliat an exquisite figure,” — he interrupted, — 
“the personification of the snow, with white 
feet, like a penitent.” He had once made a 
bright mark in the world of letters, then ceased 
to strive and later ceased to care, so it might be 
supposed that his commendation was of some 
value. 

“ Miss Hill,” he said, with sudden animation, 
“ what are you going to do with your life ? ” 

“ Live it, if I am permitted.” 

“How?” 

“ I have my dreams.” 

“ Of what ? ” 

She smiled, looking far away, but kept silence. 

“I can’t make you out,” he said, a little pee- 
vishly. “ I believe you have genius for literature, 
yet you seem to be perfectly indifferent about 
cultivating it. Were you like others one might 
suppose that love and marriage made up your 
dreams ; but you are as indifferent to lovers as 
to possible fame. I don’t understand you.” 

“Well, it isn’t worth while to bother about 
me,” she said. “ I shall be gone some day.” 

“ I fear you will,” he answered, with feeling ; “ I 
have thought of it a thousand times, and dreaded 
to enter the house, lest I should not find you 


58 


An Index Finger. 

there. A sense of your impermanence is always 
with me. You don’t belong here in any sense, 
and I fear that Fate will not let you stay much 
longer. There is an unreality about your being 
here at all that is like the experiences we have 
when we sleep, real enough while they are oc- 
curring, but unreal to remember. Yes, you will 
be gone some day. Therefore, I shall take Fate 
by the forelock and go first, that I may not be 
here when you leave. I could not endure that. 
The very sight of the old house and this tree 
would then be intolerable to me.” 

His face and speech were impassioned, but the 
girl saw it not. That was what made her so ex- 
asperating to those whom she fascinated. She 
seemed incapable of seeing that she could fasci- 
nate. The truth was she was self-absorbed. 

You would miss me, I am sure,” she said, in 
the most matter-of-fact tone, “ and I should miss 
you greatly, if you were gone.” 

“ Where will you go to when you leave here ? ” 
he asked. 

“ To my own people, I hope,” she answered, 
dreamily, her eyes wandering away to the hori- 
zon. 

“Tell me about them,” he begged. “I have 
often tried to lead you to talk of them, but you 
never would. You are a tell-all, tell-nothing sort 
of person. Others do not notice that, but I do, 
and have woven some theories about it.” 


Confidences and Questions. 59 

“ I dare say they do me great honor, but in 
all probability they are far from true.” 

‘‘Well, then, why will you not tell me about 
yourself ? ” he asked, in an injured tone. 

“You talk as though I have been making 
history on this planet for ages. I am young; 
what could I have to tell that would satisfy your 
expectation of the extraordinary. You have 
known me here in this house for more than two 
years. As the Indians in the old story-books 
say, we have ‘ eaten salt together daily,’ and we 
have walked and talked together with the free- 
dom of children. What is there of me still un- 
revealed ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” he said, “ but I feel there is 
something — a part of you and your experiences 
from which I and others are shut out, and that 
part is the greatest part of you. I argue that, 
because, although you attract many, myself, poor 
moth, among them, no one gets near to you. An 
invisible but formidable wall surrounds you, from 
which all our attempted gallantries rebound like 
arrows which strike rocks. And there you are 
behind it, always smiling and agreeable, but en- 
tirely unmoved and secure. Now, somebody or 
some experience built that wall, for it is not in 
the nature of things for it to be there without 
cause.” 

“ Go on,” she said, smiling, as he waited for 
her to speak. “You will end by being a great 


60 


An Index Finger. 

architect yet. How like magic you put up that 
wall.” 

You may chaff as much as you please,” he 
said, a little savagely, “ but I am not to be put 
off that way. How that I have begun I am 
going to say some things seriously and you must 
hear them seriously.” 

“ I told you to go on,” she said, composedly. 

“And so I will,” he grumbled, “though I 
know perfectly well that it would be manlier if 
I kept silence. As you say, we have eaten and 
walked and talked together as freely as children 
for more than two years. In that time we have 
become well acquainted — not the poor, shallow 
acquaintance of formal society, but the near, in- 
timate association of two human beings who 
honestly express themselves to each other. The 
result of this comradeship is that I love you. I 
will not say I have learned to love you, for some- 
thing of the fact was clear to me the very first 
time I saw you. In all probability you don’t re- 
member the incidents of that day at all, but I do. 
Brooks, our good host, as you know, is my old 
friend. I had drifted to this city in an aimless 
way, as I had been drifting for years. He met 
me and brought me home to dinner with him. I 
have always adored intellect in man or woman. 
One look into your eyes told me that you are of 
uncommon endowments. Then, along with a 
beautiful but simple stateliness of manner, you 


Confidences and Questions. 61 

have certain childish graces of which you are un- 
conscious. You have never put your childhood 
entirely away from you. I particularly noticed 
the correct school-girlish arrangement of your 
knife and fork at the end of the dinner, and was 
charmed by it. After we left the table I said to 
Brooks that you had wonderful eyes. He agreed 
with me, but Avarned me not to let them undo 
me, because he said you were constructed on a 
novel plan, one man being the same as another 
to you, and all being as nothing. 

“ I paid no attention to his Avarning, as you 
see. On the contrary, Avhen he went to the 
Times office and secured me a situation, I ac- 
cepted it gratefully, because I could then become 
a member of his household and see you every 
day. I have loved you ever since, and have had 
much quiet joy in it, and it has bettered me in 
many Avays. I know perfectly Avell — I have al- 
ways known — that you do not love me, and in 
my least selfish moments I am glad of it, because 
I have nothing to offer you that is fit for you to 
accept. I would not tell you that I love you — 
never a Avord of it — Avere I not sure that it will 
not hurt you. In the years to come the memory 
of it may comfort you. It is a great comfort to 
me noAv, hopeless as it is. It helps me only to 
tell it. O my child, my heart has long been sick 
and sore from bruises the like of which I pray 
you may never knoAv. We men are set up to be 


62 


An Index Finger. 

so strong and pretend to be so self-satisfied, but 
we are only grown-up children after all. When 
we are sore in spirit we long for some loving 
woman soul to take us to her arms and pet and 
soothe us mother-like, yet we often live our lives 
without it. 

I am fifteen years older than you, and know 
the world well — better than I wish I did— so 
well that I should like to protect you from its 
ugly phases. Yet I am powerless to do it. N ever 
did I so deeply lament my aimless, wasted life 
as now, when I see myself with nothing to offer 
you and yet loving you with all my heart. 
Sometimes, since I have known you, I have 
dreamed that with your help I could pull myself 
together and make something of my life yet ; 
but the dream is only temporary — it fiees, the 
reaction comes and I sink back to the role of a 
nobody which I have long been playing, and 
doubtless shall play to the end — an end that I 
may make for myself any day. 

“ To say that I despise myself for being the 
wretched failure I am is to express myself but 
lamely. My love has in it an element of the 
paternal. I am not thinking so much of what 
you might be to me, but of what I earnestly wish 
I might be to you. I long to shield you from 
the infinite horror of the experience we call life, 
as it is revealed to many. You are like a tall 
young pine-tree standing alone on a high rugged 


Confidences and Questions. 


63 


and rocky mountain side, enjoying the sunshine 
and swaying gently in the summer breeze, not 
knowing that the winter of the future will bring 
storms that may tear its roots from the earth. 
You know not your own value, that is the danger. 
Some day you may give your love and have your 
heart broken. That’s what happens to strong 
souls usually, and you are one of them. I know 
the answer to the woman poet’s question : 

“ * Is it so, O Christ in heaven, that the highest suffer most ? 
That the strongest wander farthest, and most hopelessly are 
lost ? 

That the mark of rank in nature is capacity for pain. 

And the anguish of the singer, makes the sweetness of the 
strain ? * 

‘‘ ‘ I have many things to tell you, but ye cannot bear them 
now.^ 

‘‘ Yes, I know the answer to that, and it makes 
me anxious about your future. Behold the piti- 
ful spectacle of a man who loves a woman, tells 
her of it, and yet confesses himself a hopeless 
failure.” 

But why do you insist upon considering your- 
self a failure ?” asked Miss Hill. “You are not 
old, you have good health, education, ability, the 
necessary ingredients for achievement.” 

“ Child, you do not understand. How could 
you ? the ruin is Avithin, not visible on the outer 
walls.” 

“ No ; I do not understand,” she said. 


64 


An Index Finger. 

“ I will tell you,” he said, “ how I came to be 
a loiterer in the race, what 

“ * wrought my woe, 

In the diamond morning of long ago,’ 

as the song says. You see I began by asking you 
about yourself, and, with the artless art that 
distinguishes you, with scarcelj^ a word, you have 
switched me oflf the track I had taken and set me 
talking about myself instead. I shall lose in 
your respect after I tell my story, as a matter of 
course, but I would rather you knew it. 

‘‘Years ago, in the days when the earth was 
new and sweet to me — in the mountain-moving 
period of life, the tragedy began. I loved, and 
like the lover of Annabel Lee I may say that the 
angels of heaven coveted the love of her and me. 
I was one of the editors of the most prosperous 
daily newspaper in the city that was my home, 
my uncle being its proprietor. He had no chil- 
dren of his own, and had brought up my brother 
and me, our parents having died, when we were 
very little. 

“ A sensational criminal trial was before the 
courts of a distant city, and it was arranged that 
I was to attend it and send daily letters to my 
journal. As it promised to last several weeks, 
the separation from Emma looked unendurable. 
I must marry her and take her with me. But 
when I told my plan to her she said she couldn’t 


Confidences and Questions. 


65 


leave her father, who was old, feeble and almost 
blind, with nobody else to care for him. In my 
selfishness I had forgotten him. ‘ I cannot go 
with you,’ she said, ^ but I am willing to marry 
you before you go. It will comfort me while 
you are gone just to know that I am your wife.’ 

“ So we married, telling no one but Emma’s 
father. The secrecy was needless and foolish, 
but when young we are all more or less enslaved 
by the ways of others, and this was too violent a 
departure from custom to be proclaimed just 
then.” 

“ Ours was an unusual but not unhappy honey- 
moon. We wrote every day, long, glowing 
letters, and annihilated distance with our 
thought. 

“But one day a telegram came announcing 
that my wife had been murdered — struck down 
in her own home, in the light of day, in the pres- 
ence of her helpless old father. 

“ Behind the dreadful deed was the usual crazy 
rejected suitor. I knew the wretched boy well 
— he was but a boy — but never dreamed of the 
ghastly possibilities within his crooked mind. 
But what know we of any one ? Who is safe 
from treating the community to a hideous 
sensation ? 

“ He had long been fond of Emma, but lost 
hope when he saw that my attitude toward her 
was an assured one. But after I went away he 


66 


An Index Finger. 

got it into his crazy head that we had quarreled, 
and took heart again. When he implored her to 
marry him, and she refused without telling him 
that she was already married, he shot her dead 
and then shot himself. 

“ Horror, grief, and remorse overwhelmed me. 
I blamed myself. Why had I not announced the 
marriage at once ? Had the wretched boy known 
that Emma was my wife, he would have let her 
alone, I am sure. What did it avail that I put a 
tablet at her grave bearing the name of Emma 
Westfield? Humble as was the name it might 
have protected her had it been openly bestowed 
upon her. 

“This happened ten years ago, before my 
friend Brooks, our host, ever met me. He 
knows nothing of it — doesn’t dream that I ever 
was married. To speak of it would oblige me to 
enter into explanations, to uncover my heart to 
gratify curiosity, which, however kindly meant, is 
always painful to a sore spirit. I tell you that 
you may understand I have at least the shadow 
of an excuse for being what I am, a man with- 
out purpose, a withered, useless branch of the 
human tree, waiting for the man with the prun- 
ing knife to come and cut me down. 

“ See the irony of fate. A few days after my 
wife’s death, my uncle died, leaving all his prop- 
erty to my brother and me. We were now 
owners of the newspaper on which we had 


Confidences and Questions. 67 

worked as employees, and of other valuable in- 
terest besides. It only emphasized my misery. 
Of all my possessions I could give nothing to the 
woman I loved — nothing but a stone at the end 
of a little heap of earth. 

‘‘ It might have been better for me had I not 
inherited my uncle’s property, for it enabled me 
to idle away my time and indulge my selfish 
grief, until my will became enfeebled, and that 
means the crumbling of the whole character, 
which goes to pieces like an old wall. 

“ I went away, wandering over the earth aim- 
lessly, not trying to benefit by travel, only hop- 
ing to make new scenes blot out the old, un- 
bearable ones. I spent years in the vain effort 
to run away from myself. I am still engaged in 
that hopeless effort, though I have learned that 
it can’t be done. We take our world with us 
wherever we go — heaven and hell bring both 
within us. 

“ I am but a morbid idler, who has lost the 
qualities that give a man a place among men. 
Though I never tried to stifle memory and mis- 
ery in debauchery, my money melted away. 
The coarse pleasures many men pursue never had 
charms for me, but my destruction was none the 
less sure. It has come without degradation, I am 
thankful to say, save that which any man must 
feel who has let himself slide down hill so far he 
never can climb up again. 


68 


An Index Finger. 

“ Once only since that dreadful thing happened 
have I accomplished anything. I braced myself 
against my inner foes long enough to write the 
little book you know. It gave me fame enough 
for a foundation for future work, had I followed it 
up ; but I didn’t. I fell immediately back into the 
clutches of the miserable devils who possessed 
me — made a complete and inglorious surrender 
to them for all time, caring naught who wins 
the prizes in the hateful race of life. 

“ My story proves me a contemptible weakling. 
I know I am not a whit above the cheap hero of 
the old-time, pirate novel, the fellow who does 
the gloomy, manages to look as though the hand 
of Fate was ever upon him, and has a secret 
sorrow as big as an omnibus, which he wants all 
the world to know. I am not made of the right 
kind of stuff or I should not have given up at the 
first blow of Destiny. ‘ Man yields himself not to 
the angels nor even unto Death itself, save 
through the weakness of his own poor will.’ 

“Had Emma’s father lived, the care of him 
might have proved a prop to me, but the shock 
killed him, and he died a few weeks after she 
did. I had my brother, younger than myself, 
and we loved each other, but I argued that he 
did not need me, and left him. He loves me still 
and follows me with the kindest, dearest letters, 
and is always begging me to come back to him ; 
but I will not be a cloud upon his happiness 


Confidences and Questions. 


69 


and prosperity. Yet his sympathy and yours are 
all that is left in the world precious to me. 

My love for you is different from my early 
love. In that day the castles I constructed were 
very worldly ones. Now, I have no worldly am- 
bitions whatever. It seems to me that by some 
kind of kinship of soul, if there is such a thing as 
soul, you belong to me, and never can be taken 
from me, though our lives may be widely sep- 
arated. If you were the vilest and most degraded 
creature in the world and yet were yourself, 
I should love you just the same. 

“ After Emma went away I tried hard to tear 
from Death its well-guarded secret. I wanted 
to know if the dark hole in the ground is the 
end of us all. I pounded fiercely on the very 
doors of the tomb, begging piteously for an an- 
swer. None came. No ; never a word came out 
of the silence into which she had gone. The 
people who say they believe in a hereafter quote 
at us those exasperating scriptural questions : ^ O 
Death, where is thy sting ? O grave, where is 
thy victory ? ’ I can answer them. The sting 
is here, in my heart. The victory is over all 
my hopes, dreams and ambitions. People who 
believe! Are there any such? They only say 
they believe. It is all mere mouthing. Can any 
man believe that which he does not know? 
Their twaddle about faith and heaven enraged 
me. I wanted proof, proof — though but a whis- 


70 


An Index Finger. 

pered word, the faintest touch of a vanished 
hand, or the tiniest scratch of a familiar pen. 
Proof ! Proof ! Oh for the proof that she lived 
somewhere. Had I had that I could have 
laughed long and loud at Death, the liar and the 
cheat. The merest thread of a rope would have 
served for me to hold to, I was so eager to be- 
lieve. But nobody let it down to me — not then, 
nor in all the years since. 

“Yet now, in spite of all that, when I look at 
you, I cannot persuade myself that you are to 
die — to cease from living. You carry with you 
a conviction of immortality. Your intense indi- 
viduality seems like a deathless thing. It re- 
minds me of the words of the young Greek in 
the drama of Ion. When his life was to be sac- 
rificed, his beloved asks if they shall meet again. 
He says, ‘ I have asked that dreadful question of 
the hills that look eternal — of the streams that 
flow forever — of the stars among whose flelds of 
azure my raised spirit has walked in glory. All 
are dumb. But as I gaze upon thy living face, I 
see something in the love that lights its beauty 
which cannot wholly perish. We shall meet 
again, Clemanthe ? ’ 

“ What answer have you for the question ? ‘ If 
a man die shall he live again ? ’ ” 

“ About that I think much, hope a little some- 
times, but know nothing,” she said. 

“ No ; we know nothing,” he echoed, with a 


Confidences and Questions. 71 

sigh ; ‘‘ but it is something to hope. I have a 
fancy that the road is not long ahead of me here, 
and I may soon have a chance to know what 
there is or know nothing. If we have an exist- 
ence beyond this objective one, I may be able to 
help you from there. It would be helping you 
could I but come and tell you that I lived, would 
it not ? ” 

What greater service could you do me ? ” 

“ If I could do that I might do more. Who 
knows ? Of course it is absurd to speak of help- 
ing you without explaining what I mean. Ap- 
parently you need nobody’s help. You are 
strong of character, self-poised, capable, success- 
ful and fearless. I see all that, yet I cannot rid 
myself of the fear that you are destined to suffer 
much and will need the service and sympathy of 
all who love you. From life I have learned a 
little. When great strength is given I know it 
will be needed. And you are stronger in char- 
acter than you know. I should like to save you 
from suffering, but were I ever so rich and pow- 
erful, I know I could not do it. You must meet 
your destiny, whatever it may be. As the 
Scotch say, ‘must dree your weird.’ Nobody 
else can live your life for you, for, alas ! life ad- 
mits of no proxy. I have woven many fanciful 
theories about you and your past, present and 
future.” 

“ Tell me one,” she said. 


72 


An Index Finger. 

‘‘I will give you my favorite. You are not 
what you seem to be — not less but more than 
you pretend to be. You have been tenderly 
reared and much loved. You are not here earn- 
ing your bread because of necessity, but for some 
purpose not thought of by those with whom you 
come in contact. Having demonstrated your 
ability to stand alone, you will go back home 
some day and be done with it. You are sup- 
ported in whatever otherwise would be hard, by 
the knowledge that you are free to turn your 
back upon it whenever you wish. Am I not a 
good clairvoyant ? ” 

Permit me to ask why you think as you do 
about me ? ” 

Because you give me the impression of not 
belonging where I find you. You seem to be 
playing a part and doing it with exceeding skill ; 
but your real self is not in it. As you say, you 
will be gone some day to your own people. And 
now that I have confessed myself a failure and a 
fool, I too, shall go away.” 

“ Why ? ” she asked, regretfully. “ Why must 
the men and women who find each other com- 
panionable be lovers or nothing to each other ? 
I am fond of you, very, not in the sentimental 
fashion, but as good comrade and friend. Why 
can’t we go on just as we have been doing ? 
That talk about loving me need make no differ- 
ence,” 


Confidences and Questions. 


73 


You are like a child about these things,” he 
said. “You know not the creature man in his 
bondage to selfishness. You credit us with the 
strength of gods, and we are mostly such poor, ill- 
developed wretches that if we want what we can- 
not have we must run away to avoid showing 
how little we are masters of ourselves. But tell 
me what are you going to do with your life ? ” 

“ I have my dreams.” 

“ Of what ? ” 

“ Happiness.” 

“Would it be offensive if I asked upon what 
particular brand of the article you have set your 
heart ? ” 

“ The most commonplace one in the world, — 
the love and companionship of him who is 
dearest.” 

Westfield was too astonished to say anything. 
Was the riddle so simple? Was this self-con- 
tained, independent girl following the same every- 
day illusion that lured all other women ? While 
apparently caring nothing for lovers was she 
worshiping the one she carried ever in her heart ? 

“ I will tell you all there is to tell,” she said, 
after a moment, “ and then you will understand.” 

He nodded assent, but felt his heart sinking. 


An Index Finger. 


74 : 


CHAPTEE IV. 

HEK STORY AND FATE. 

“Who reads the riddle right? 

And who can answer why 
These clouds sweep over our mental life? 

Not you, brave priest, nor 

“ Instead of being tenderly cared for, as you 
imagine,” said Miss Hill, “ I had a loveless child- 
hood, though above all things I wanted to be 
loved and to be told that I was loved. I could 
have been an angel of goodness had I had even a 
little love ; but next to none was given me. If 
parents only knew that by showing love for their 
children they made for them a foundation of hap- 
piness which no after experiences could knock 
from under their feet, perhaps they would be 
kinder than some of them are. But why speak of 
ifs at all ? If we knew at the beginning of life 
what we know at the end of it, perhaps we should 
never have to make the journey. I have thought 
often that I could bear my trouble courageously 
if I had sweet memories of childhood ; but I have 
only bitter ones. Sometimes I have been un- 
happy since I have been earning my own bread 
among people unknown to me before, but never, 
never for a moment so miserable as I was always 
in the home into which I was born. 


75 


Her Story and Fate. 

“ I understand the reason of it all better now 
and blame nobody. The law was simply work- 
ing itself out into its natural results. If I suf- 
fered — well, who doesn’t suffer as the mills of 
the gods grind, set in operation as they usually 
are by ignorant hands ? My father and mother 
were natural enemies, who should have lived as 
far asunder as the poles, instead of enacting a 
hideous, lifelong tragedy in the name of mar- 
riage. I am quite sure they hated each other 
energetically most of the time and bitterly the 
rest of it, yet they stuck together and brought 
seven children into the world to suffer in a thou- 
sand ways from their incompatible union, and 
considered themselves virtuous in so doing. Yet, 
that is the kind of thing that passes for morality. 
Long ago I saw that it was a foul lie, and the 
direst foe to morality. When my eldest sister 
was married, and I heard the words ‘ What God 
has joined together let no man put asunder,’ 
clinching the curse, as it were, it set me to think- 
ing and asking questions. Somebody explained 
to me that all husbands and wives were joined 
together by God, and could not possibly be 
separated without going violently against His 
will, except by death, and that, of course, was in 
accordance with His will. I pondered over this 
with a heavy heart. Then God had united my 
father and mother. This dreadful work had 
been done by His hand, and I was wroth against 


76 An Index Finger. 

Him, for every day I felt and saw the evil effects 
of it. 

“ Is it strange that ours was a loveless family ? 
With no love between husband and wife, could 
they be expected to love their children ? Can a 
mother be expected to love the child who comes 
unwelcome to her arms? Can a father love 
children in whom he sees the features and traits 
of the woman to whom he is hopelessly bound 
and yet hates ? We were all victims of violated 
law, so who was to blame ? Ignorance ! Igno- 
rance, which is responsible for all the evil and all 
the suffering under the sun. In fact ignorance 
is evil, and evil is ignorance, nothing more nor 
less. You know Shakspeare says there is no dark- 
ness but ignorance. 

“We frequently have well-meaning persons say 
that ill-mated married folk should stick together 
‘for the sake of the children.’ Yet for that very 
reason they should separate. Their children and 
children’s children pay the penalty of their vio- 
lation of the laws of harmony, and still farther 
down the line of the future goes the misery that 
had its origin in a hateful marriage. Pray tell 
me how is morality served thereby ? 

“ In addition to the discord that made our lives 
wretched my parents were victims of the des- 
perate struggle for existence, in which the finer 
qualities were squeezed out. This so absorbed 
them that the true meaning of home and family 


( 


77 


Her Story and Fate. 

escaped them, and the material side of the sit- 
uation alone received attention. We were all 
wretched. It was a horrible experience. There 
we were, not of our own choice, wedged into an 
unwelcome place and unable to extricate our- 
selves. We were plainly told that whatever was 
done for us was to help make us able to take care 
of ourselves. We were urged to be industrious 
at school, because learning would enable us to be 
self-supporting. I never heard any other reason 
put forth in defence of education. This was 
dinned into our ears until life had but one mean- 
ing, — that of getting on in the world. The 
problem ended there. The result, I need hardly 
say, was to make us selfish. Instead of loving 
one another and sharing each others’ burdens, 
each thought only of his or her individual suc- 
cess, and the cherished dream of all was to get 
away — to go forth where there was opportunity. 

“ I was next to the youngest, a sister, an ex- 
traordinary little being, who had brought with 
her traces of a wisdom not of the earth, and a 
recollection of conditions and surroundings more 
to her taste than our jarring household. She 
talked much of a home that she had had some- 
where, and often wept to go back to it, nor could 
she ever be persuaded to call the place in which 
she found herself home. God knows how alien 
and comfortless it must have seemed to her 
delicate spirit. When three years old she left 


78 An Index Finger. 

us, such was her good fortune. At least it 
seemed good to me even then, and when they 
told me the usual fanciful tales of wings and a 
shining heaven, I envied her. 

“One by one my sisters and brothers made 
haste to leave. So eager were they to get away 
that some took the first matrimonial boat on 
which they could secure passage, and thereby 
made sad shipwreck of their lives. How I 
longed to be loved. When I saw other children 
petted and caressed my heart swelled almost to 
bursting. The result of my unsatisfied longing 
was that I took refuge in my imagination and 
there lived a life as congenial and blissful as my 
outside life was distasteful and miserable. I sur- 
rounded myself with imaginary friends whom I 
loved and who loved me — charming, agreeable, 
superior people — men and women, not children. 
The misery that prevailed in our home had taken 
my childhood from me before I knew I possessed 
it. I early learned the solemn truth that ‘ each 
soul in what is most itself, in what is deepest and 
nearest, lives alone, and that there is more lone- 
liness in life than there is communion.’ I, too, 
like my little sister, suffered from a strange 
homesickness of the spirit, a longing for sympa- 
thetic association, for companionship, in short. I 
wanted congenial air, Hhat air which may be 
found everywhere, if we can find sympathetic 
souls to breathe it with us, and which is to be 


79 


Her Story and Fate. 

found nowhere without them, — the air of the 
land of our dreams, of the country of the ideal.’ 
Plotinus says ‘Our true country is that from 
whence we came.’ It has always seemed to me 
that far back in the past I lived somewhere and 
was happy. How I am ever searching for the 
souls who are in sympathy with me, as in that 
far-off time. They are my own people, rather 
than those to whom I am related by consanguine 
ties. They or their counterparts exist somewhere 
on the earth, I believe, and the real business of 
my life is to find them. 

“ One’s own people ! Think of what it would 
be to dwell among them, where sympathy met 
one in every glance, and love made itself felt in 
every tone of the voice. 

“ I was fond of study, was quick to learn, and 
when only seventeen was so far advanced that I 
felt ready to begin life on my own account. Like 
the others, I was restless to leave a home which 
had never been more than a shelter to me. I 
had no dreams of marrying, and walking in the 
same treadmill in which so many millions of 
women have worn out their souls as well as their 
bodies. I could never see why all women should 
spend their lives in cooking and nursing children 
any more than why all men should till the soil, 
which was civilized man’s primal occupation. I 
saw, too, very clearly, that women could never 
be more than half -fledged mentally, or have any 


80 


An Index Finger. 

real influence in the world of affairs so long as 
they were dependents financially. They must 
achieve pecuniary independence before they could 
hope for wider orbits, as it were. To get an op- 
portunity to carve my own way in life was my 
unceasing wish. So unceasing and earnest was 
it that it created its own fulfilment. You may 
put it down as a great truth, that a desire held 
with earnestness, faith and persistence, will bring 
to the one who holds it its object. ‘ Ask and ye 
shall receive ’ is a law that is operative every- 
where. 

“ I held myself ready to do whatever I could 
find that needed doing, but always in the day- 
dreams of my future I saw myself a successful 
painter and author, because hundreds of beauti- 
ful pictures danced before my mind and begged 
to be put on canvas, and thousands of thoughts 
and fancies flitted through my brain that I longed 
to share with all who would hear me. 

I had a gift for drawing, but had advanced 
as far as I could go without better instructors 
than were attainable where I lived. One thing, 
however, I had, which was a blessing to my ar- 
tistic sense and a solace to my spirit. That was 
a beautiful landscape to look upon. As the men- 
tal atmosphere of home was always inharmonious 
I lived outdoors as much as possible, and from 
the fine view the location commanded I extracted 
much profound pleasure. 


81 


Her Story and Fate. 

‘‘ One day I saw an advertisement in a newspa- 
per to the effect that a lithographer in a little 
city fifty miles away wanted an assistant whom 
he could train to suit his needs. The next day 
found me face to face with the advertiser, talking 
myself up unblushingly. He was surprised, of 
course, that a girl whose frocks as yet came no 
lower than her ankles, should want to learn an 
art presumably sacred to men; but after some 
hesitation he engaged me, and I found myself 
launched in life as an independent, self-support- 
ing factor. It was a proud day for me, I assure 
you. To the hardships of the situation I never 
gave a thought. The chance to work was the 
wedge that was to split up the tree of my fu- 
ture, so I set myself to hammering upon it with 
might and main. My pecuniary recompense was 
microscopical, but even that gave me no distress. 
Such as it was I managed to live within it, and 
look forward to something better. 

“The lithographer’s establishment proved to 
be very interesting to me. Some excellent work 
was done there, and some odd jobs of various 
kinds — even the engraving of spoons sometimes — 
all of which I learned to do. In fact I learned to 
do anything and everything there as well as any- 
body, and before long received a larger salary, 
though never anything very imposing. I consid- 
ered the time well spent, however, for I was per- 
fecting myself in drawing, and when out of office 


82 


An Index Finger. 

studied languages and read much. I was happy 
— happier than I had ever been in my life, for I 
was out of the wretchedness that prevailed at 
home, and was treated with politeness and respect 
by everybody. 

“ Among the patrons of our establishment with 
whom I came in contact was Mr. Doring. He 
made no particular impression on me, until an 
epidemic came and his three children fell victims 
to it and died. Then as I heard considerable talk 
about his sorrow in the office, I tried to express 
my sympathy when next I saw him. 

“ Nearly a year passed when the community 
was startled by the announcement that his wife 
had died suddenly and suspiciously, and he had 
been arrested as her murderer. As in all such 
cases, some considered the accusation preposter- 
ous, and others believed in it with vindictive en- 
ergy, and clamored for his punishment. I was 
indignant at their gross cruelty and expressed my 
opinion freely — too freely, I Avas told. He Avas 
tried and acquitted, but his acquittal did not set 
him right in the eyes of many of his toAAmspeople. 
They talked over the circumstances, magnifying 
all the suspicious indications and inventing neAv 
ones, and they treated him to cuts, contemptuous 
looks and other expressions of malevolence, until 
they almost broke him down. You know there 
are human beings who bitterly resent it Avhen a 
sensation doesn’t develop into the last phase of 


Her Storj and Fate. 83 

the horrible, and of such that town was largely 
composed. 

“ A few days after his acquittal Coring came 
into our office and thanked me warmly for my 
kind expressions of faith in his innocence, of 
which it seems he had been told. He looked 
haggard and ill, and at sight of him I felt re- 
newed indignation at the cruelty of man to man, 
and I said so as earnestly as I could. 

“ About that time I began to notice something 
queer in the faces of people when they talked 
about Coring to me. I could not read it clearly, 
but that it was inimical to me I soon discovered. 
It was something they pretended to conceal, yet 
really wanted to make conspicuously noticeable. 
It was a suspicion of a low order, but what ? The 
man was nothing to me more than any other vic- 
tim of injustice. What had I to do with him and 
his sorrowful affairs ? 

“ I am intuitive and sensitive. As soon as I 
began to notice this unspoken suspicion, I began 
to look guilty. My face flamed red at the men- 
tion of his name or any allusion to the case. You 
can understand that, but minds of a lower grade 
could not. They construed it as a sign of guilt, 
yet it was but the knowledge of their offensive 
thoughts that embarrassed and unsettled me. To 
know that I was suspected made me look confused 
and guilty. It was always so even when I was a 
child at school. If a culprit were sought, I 


84 


An Index Finger. 

looked like one. You know, however, that most 
people are mere surface readers of others, and 
nothing in the world is so little understood as a 
delicate, sensitive, high spirit. I who was far re- 
moved in thought from that of which I was sus- 
pected, crimsoned with horror when I encoun- 
tered this base suspicion in the faces of those who 
harbored it, and it made me self-conscious and 
shy when I spoke with Doring himself. In short, 
it ate into me and destroyed my peace. 

In a little while the air grew black with it. 
All pretence of concealment was abandoned, and 
significant looks blossomed into speech. They 
said Doring and I were infatuated with each 
other, and that he had killed his wife in order to 
be able to marry me, and that I had put him up 
to it. The vilest and falsest tales were circu- 
lated about us. The miserable local newspa- 
pers printed thinly-veiled insinuations, and fool 
friends came and poured abhorrent stories into 
my ears. 

“ The brutal malevolence of their lies amazed 
as well as horrified me. I could not see what I 
had done to bring such an avalanche of malice 
upon me. You may imagine what I suffered. 
Alone, and with a heart that had in it originally 
nothing but good will for everybody, this cruel 
experience almost withered me for life. 

‘‘ I longed to leave the accursed place which 
now seemed peopled with devils. Driven almost 


85 


Her Story and Fate. 

to desperation, at last I went forth to find a spot 
untainted by the hatred that there had destroyed 
my peace. I came here to Gougal’s great en- 
graving house, and with nothing in the way of 
help or influence from anybody, asked for em- 
ployment and got it . — ‘ Ask and ye shall receive ’ 
being a true law. Here I have been ever since, 
almost happy — at least not miserable. 

“ But this is not all my story. The difficult 
part is to come. A few days before I left Mr. 
Boring came into the office where I was at work 
and told me that he loved me. I was surprised 
and startled, and yet I listened gladly, and the 
story sounded sweet to me. It seemed to me 
that I had always loved him, though I don’t 
know why, for I am sure I had not thought of it 
before. We were both victims of unjust and 
malicious public opinion, so perhaps it was nat- 
ural that we turned to each other for consola- 
tion, though I have often wondered since what it 
was that suddenly filled my mind with love for a 
man who, until that moment was no more to me 
than any other. Are the words ‘ I love you ’ so 
potent that they can create responsive love ? In 
no sense is he my ideal, but the feeling that came 
into life when he spoke those words to me has 
dominated me from that hour, though I have 
never seen him since that day. I have wondered 
if he loved me before that scandal came upon 
him, and if, in some mysterious way, people found 


86 


An Index Finger. 

it out and constructed their tales according to 
their light on such situations ? Or whether their 
stories put it into his head, and if so, through 
what occult channels was it communicated to 
me ? I am almost persuaded that it was brought 
about somehow by the accusations of the com- 
munity in which we lived. Somebody put out 
the suggestion, it reached his mind and there 
sprouted, took root and grew until it was strong 
enough to transplant a counterpart of itself to 
mine, for ideas are transmissible, you know. 
Ah ! if we but knew the mystery of mind we 
should know all there is to know, perhaps. 

“After I came away, Doring left too. He 
writes me constantly, and is now urging me 
strongly to marry him. I believe that I love 
him, and the knowledge that he loves me sus- 
tains me. Merely thinking about it keeps me 
from being lonely. ’Tis said that love is life; 
that even the love of a bird or a dog will keep a 
human being alive. You and others have won- 
dered why I am apparently so contented and 
cheerful and want no lovers, only good com- 
rades. It is because my heart is anchored. 

“ And yet I shrink from marrying Doring. It 
would mean the stirring up of all the now stag- 
nant pools of scandals. I am content to go on as 
I am, for a time at least, finding my joy in the 
thoughts of being loved ; but he is not willing. 
He says he has waited long enough — that the 


Her Story and Fate. 


87 


matter must be decided one way or the other very 
soon. When I think of giving him up, of putting 
it all out of my life and plodding on with noth- 
ing to sustain me, I feel that I can’t do it. Un- 
happily, I am one of those miserable beings who 
are loyal by nature and cannot help it if they 
would. An affection becomes a part of me, and 
can’t be put off without disaster to the whole 
structure. 

“ This love has absorbed me to the extent of 
destroying my ambition to achieve something 
excellent with pen or pencil. What dreams have 
I not woven around this central idea — dreams 
impossible of fulfilment, yet nearly as blissful as 
reality. 

In a few days Mr. Coring will be here. He 
has written me that he intends to come to talk 
over our future. So you shall see him.” 

One evening soon after as Westfield was re- 
turning to the house he met Miss Hill accom- 
panied by a stranger. “ It is Coring,” he said, 
and his heart sank. Intuitive moments come to 
all of us, when the hidden is revealed, when souls 
stand naked before our eyes, stripped of the 
cloaks and without the props which make them 
fair and imposing to ordinary perception. Such 
a moment came to Westfield, and he saw Louis 
Coring with an inner sight to which everything 
was made plain, and as he looked his face grew 


88 


An Index Finger. 

white to the lips and his eyes became fixed and 
glassy like those of the dead. 

God help her,” he groaned inwardly, as he 
passed on. “ The man is a fool — a stupid, brain- 
less, fiabby character — a dull dolt with regular 
features and a straight figure made imposing by 
the tailor’s skill, and a selfish heart. Exactly the 
kind of beast that can dazzle women as brainless 
as himself. But how has he bewitched her? 
Why do I ask, when I know that the destinies 
of the grandest and sweetest souls, a grim and 
perverse fate often rules ? The ‘ highest suffer 
most,’ the ‘ strongest wander farthest and most 
hopelessly are lost.’ 

How can I bear it ? It crucifies me to know 
that that wax-faced, tailor-made biped has been 
carried in her mind as a hero and worshipped. 
And now after years of deception he will destroy 
her whole life. 

“ I see how it came about. The scandal in- 
vented by the community suggested it to him — 
sowed the seeds in both their heads. We live 
under the influence of suggestion of one kind or 
another all the time. What is the force of public 
opinion but this on a gigantic scale? The 
wretch has sighed and maundered and posed be- 
fore her about his sufferings until he awoke her 
sympathy, and he will hang on to her and will 
not give her up because he is attracted by the 
magnetism of her strength of character. And 


89 


Her Story and Fate. 

she, deluded soul, idealizes him, endows him with 
splendid qualities — in short, sees in him that 
which is in herself. She will go straight to her 
destruction, and I can’t save her. Until I saw 
him I believed the best of him ; but now I know 
what is before her if she should marry him. It 
will be like awaking from a blissful trance — it 
will be just that. O my heart of light ! O, my 
tall young pine! The tragedy of your life is 
more than I can bear.” 

Going hastily to his room he made ready and 
tore away to the country for a few days. “ I 
could not endure to see the creature again,” he 
said, as his train pulled out of the station. 

When he returned everything was going on as 
usual at the house, yet nothing was the same to 
him, nor could it ever be again. He did not 
speak of Doring to Miss Hill, but she herself 
went back to the subject, chiding him for going 
away. 

saw Mr. Doring,” he answered, curtly, 
and didn’t like him. You may think my opin- 
ion of him is colored by jealousy, but I am sure 
it is not. I hope you will never marry him.” 

‘‘Well, I have not yet decided to marry him,” 
she said. 

“If you have not given him up entirely it 
will end that way at last. You are merely tem- 
porizing with the situation, and it will master 
you.” 


90 


An Index Finger. 

“ Probably,” she said, Avearily, and then they 
spoke of it no more. 

Not long after, Westfield Avent aAvay. When 
he Avas gone she felt a sense of desolation neAv 
in her experience. He Avas so good a comrade. 
Why had he been so foolish as to leave ? Could 
men and Avomen never be good comrades— only 
lovers, or nothing ? 

The days went on apparently as though there 
had never been a Westfield, though the other 
members of the household thought Miss TTi11 was 
not quite like herself, that perhaps she was fonder 
of Westfield than she had believed herself to be, 
and regretted him. Brooks Avas strongly in- 
clined to this opinion, though when he talked 
Avith his wife about it he drubbed Westfield 
soundly. “ Blast the fool,” he said, “ what could 
she do but let him go, even if she were fond of 
him ? What Avoman not an idiot would think of 
marrying Westfield, who is simply a charming 
failure, a penniless, indifferent, intellectual 
tramp ? ” 

In truth they were half right in their surmises. 
The old content had vanished. She missed the 
intellectual sympathy of Westfield, and Boring 
kept her restless with his importunings. She 
read his letters by the light of her own integrity, 
and therefore saw not the rank selfishness of the 


91 


Her Story and Fate. 

writer, who was vain and dull, but persistent to 
a degree that made him formidable as a wooer. 
He had recourse to all the selfish arguments of 
little souls. He said he was so perturbed in mind 
that he could not get on in anything, conse- 
quently in danger of financial ruin, and hinted 
darkly at suicide. A crisis had come to her. 
Forces within and without were wrestling over 
her destiny. Unseen hands were pushing her. 
At times she determined to marry Doring at all 
risks, and thus settle the problem, but the deci- 
sion did not bring peace, as decisions should. A 
sickening sense of imminent disaster followed, 
and she was at sea again. 

Weeks rolled into months, and the chaotic mis- 
ery of her mind was making her look worn and 
ill. A day came at last in which the genius of 
her fate cast the die. 

‘^The pursuit of happiness is a constitutional 
privilege, even for women. At least one has the 
right to choose the particular form of misery one 
prefers. Now Fate,” she said, “I am tired. 
Take you the reins and guide. What I am to 
meet, I must meet, and no shrinking or hesitat- 
ing will avail against the inevitable.” 

And so she too, went away, never to return. 


92 


An Index Finger. 


CHAPTEE V. 

THE END OF THE DEEAM. 

‘‘ O shaven priest that pratest of souls, 

Knowest thou not that men are moles 
That blindly grope and burrow ? 

The field that is grey shall be green again ; 

But whether with grass or whether with grain, 

He knoweth who turns the furrow/^ 

Miss Cartice Hill had been Mrs. Louis 
Doring six months, — a little portion of time, yet 
long enough to destroy all her illusions, and 
arouse her from her trance. The man she had 
idealized and loved for four years was a different 
person from him who was now her husband. 
Day by day the aAvakening had been going on, 
until his character stood revealed before her in 
repellent nudity, with all its pitiable defects un- 
concealed, and the worst of it was that he was 
not ashamed. A brilliant rascal usually has some 
qualities that command respect, however abomi- 
nable his knavish ones, but Doring’s defects were 
the contemptible frailties of a fool. His wife 
had expected intellectual companionship, but she 
found his even-featured face a mask over dull 
nothingness, a shield for the emptiness of his 
mind. When the full force of this discovery 
came upon her it covered her with humiliation 


The End of the Dream. 


93 


and destroyed her self-confidence and self-respect, 
nor did these qualities ever return to her in their 
former strength in all the future years. To have 
made so fatal a blunder shook her faith in her 
own wisdom forever. How was it that she had 
been blind and now saw ? Who had woven the 
spell which had glorified its object from afar ? 
She had been her own enchanter, though she 
knew it not. In him she had seen only that 
which was within herself, until forced to see him 
as he really was. 

Two days after their marriage her husband 
said to her, “ Cartice, do you have any money ? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered, pleasantly. 

“ How much ? ” 

“ I don’t know. See,” and she handed him her 
purse. 

He took it and counted fifty dollars. “ Is that 
all?” he asked, in a disappointed voice. “As 
you had only yourself to support you should have 
saved money.” 

“ I did save some,” she said, turning pale. 

“ Where is it ? ” 

She told him. 

“ I guess we shall have to use it right now,” he 
said. “ Some business ventures of mine have not 
begun to pay yet, so it’s a good thing we have 
this ready money.” 

From time to time she checked out the little 
capital that represented years of self-denial, until 


94 


An Index Finger. 

it was all gone. In the meantime she learned 
that the business ventures ” were airy nothings, 
having no existence outside of empty words. 
What he had done in the past four years she 
never knew, as he had nothing to show for the 
time, not a foothold anywhere. 

They floated about until her money was gone, 
without deflnite aim and without effort on his 
part to change conditions. To her it seemed a 
steady journey to destruction. 

Their marriage had revived the story of his 
trial for murder, and other dark stories were 
added thereto and published in vile newspapers 
throughout the country. Some of these came to 
Cartice’s hands by accident, and some by the 
foul designs of wretches who find pleasure in 
giving pain. In these infamous columns she saw 
herself described as a bold and scheming adven- 
turess, who had obtained an unholy influence 
over a hitherto blameless man, inciting him to 
murder and ruining him financially as well as 
morally. 

‘‘I have heard newspapers called civilizers,” 
she said, ‘‘but such as these should be called 
heart-breakers.” 

That experience did break her heart, since we 
have no other name for the loss of all joy in liv- 
ing. It wrought a pitiful change in her. Her 
bright mobile face became set, rigid and unread- 
able. “ Oh, but to hide from the eyes of men ” 


The End of the Dream. 95 

is ever the cry of the proud spirit when suffer- 
ing. When this cannot be done, it makes for 
itself a mask behind which its wounded pride 
and aching heart take shelter. The mask which 
Cartice Doring then put on was so impenetrable 
that it repelled any meddling with or probing 
into what lay beneath. It was her shield against 
that most merciless of all weapons, the human 
eye, and she wore it for many and many a day 
and could not cast it off. 

Every heart, however self-sufficient its outward 
bearing, craves sympathy, that precious and po- 
tent power which holds the universe together, 
yet so little faith have we in the compassion of 
our fellows that nothing in hours of anguish is so 
dreaded as their gaze. 

Cartice’s family discarded her. Being loveless 
by nature and worshippers of the Monster God, 
Self, they saw her position only in the light that 
affected them, by the unpleasant notoriety she 
had attained, and showed no consideration for 
the poor victim of malice. 

With all this came the humiliation of dire 
poverty. Her money was all spent, and they 
could no longer pay for the food and shelter they 
were receiving in a dingy little hotel in a second- 
class city. For a time she was kept from sinking 
under the avalanche of miseries that fell upon 
her by an illusion to which she held with the 
clutch of desperation. That was her faith in 


96 


An Index Finger. 


Boring’s love. Feeble of intellect and contempt- 
ible of character as she now knew him to be, 
she still loved him and believed that he loved 
her, not knowing that the power to love is in 
proportion to intellectual capacity and moral de- 
velopment, that a weak nature is as wavering in 
its affections as in other things, an easy prey to 
every fulsome word and smile from new sirens. 

A woman in the hotel made the art of flatter- 
ing men a business and had had many years prac- 
tice in it. By way of recompense for what ex- 
ternal charms Time had taken from her, it had 
given her considerable skill in her art, a skill she 
seldom used without effect. Her method of 
erotic archery was of a coarse and common 
order, but as her victims dropped readily enough, 
when she twanged her bow, there was no need 
to resort to subtler ones. It was her opinion 
that fine work in her specialty was thrown away 
upon men, one and all; that nothing was too 
gross for their vanity to feed upon, and her ex- 
periences bore out her theories. Boring’s sym- 
metrical face and figure caught her fancy, and 
she leveled her trusty crossbow at him, and 
brought him down with the first arrow, an alba- 
tross to be proud of, she thought. Her work 
went merrily on, and the unsuspecting Cartice 
saw none of it. More experienced eyes did, how- 
ever. All the rest of the women in the house 
were aware of it, and some of the bolder ones 


The End of the Dream. 


97 


undertook the delicate work of opening Mrs. 
Doring’s eyes. While they veiled their good in- 
tentions in indirect phraseology she would not 
see it, and when they came down to plain speech 
she resented it as a thing absurd and impossible. 
They went away with ruffled feathers, but pre- 
dicting a day of doom for her in the near future, 
when something would happen that would make 
her see. They were true prophets, for the day 
was at hand. 

As she was passing through the hall in the 
twilight she came upon two figures clasped in 
each other’s arms under the broad stairway. 
They were her husband and Mrs. Parker, the dis- 
tinguished archer. Without a word Cartice 
walked away from them. 

In a few minutes Doring entered her room 
with the tittering, airy manner of one who pre- 
tends to find himself in a highly humorous situa- 
tion. 

“Well, Heart’s Ease, you caught me flirting a 
bit, didn’t you ? ” he gurgled, making a stagy 
effort to be facetious. 

“Is that flirting?” she asked, in the most 
composed and polite voice. 

“Why, yes, of course. What else could it 
be?” 

“ I acknowledge that I am so untaught in mat- 
ters of that kind that I do not know the correct 
names to apply to them,” she said. “ What 


98 


An Index Finger. 

Avould you call it had I been in Mrs. Parker’s 
place, some other man in yours, and you in 
mine ? ” 

“Nonsense, child; that is not to be thought 
of.” 

“ Yes, it is,” she said, determinedly. “ My idea 
of marriage, as I have repeatedly told you, is 
perfect equality in all things, neither owning nor 
dominating the other. I give the fidelity of the 
heart and expect the same from you. The mere 
outward appearance of loyalty, which some 
wives enforce with a club would be of no value 
to me. But the conduct reveals the state of the 
heart. Were I found in the arms of a man, re- 
ceiving and answering his kisses, it would be be- 
cause I loved him intensely, devotedly; and I 
will not judge you by a lower standard than I 
wish to be judged. Marriage must mean mar- 
riage in the highest and truest sense of the word, 
or nothing. Now that I know you do not love 
me, I shall not blame you, for love is not a mat- 
ter of the will. You shall go free.” 

“ Hang it all, Cartice,” said Doring, now thor- 
oughly frightened, “you are not going to be 
melodramatic about a bit of fooling like that, are 
you ? ” 

“A bit of fooling?” she echoed, unable to 
understand him. 

“Yes. What else do you suppose it could 
be?” 


The End of the Dream. 


99 


I can only suppose that you love Mrs. Parker. 
Otherwise how could you have had her in your 
arms kissing her ? ” 

“Love her? What rubbish. As if a man 
dreamed of loving every woman he — he found it 
expedient to kiss.” 

She looked at him too amazed to speak. This 
was a revelation of man nature that was over- 
whelming. She was unaware until then of the 
light value many men set upon constancy and 
even decency in themselves, though all prate 
loud about them as jewels necessary to the adorn- 
ment of woman’s character. She was a genuine 
Galatea, in some respects, expecting to meet gods 
and shocked to find the world peopled with men 
and women of very crude minds. She was en- 
gaged in the difficult and pathetic task of trying 
to idealize the actual. 

“ Why should a man kiss a woman he does not 
love ? ” she asked at last. 

“Why?” echoed Doring, beginning to think 
he could fiounder out of his dilemma by a little 
bold bluster. “ It’s a habit most of us have got 
into, I guess. In this case I made up to the old 
flirt because she so manifestly wanted me to. 
That was all. I meant nothing by it but to 
gratify her vanity, which is on short rations just 
now, I fancy.” 

This coarse speech made his wife shiver with 
shame. The man was surely leaving her noth- 


100 


An Index Finger. 

ing to respect in himself.- As she was silent he 
thought he was gaining ground and went on : 

“The idea of your being jealous of her ! Why, 
she is old enough to be your mother.” 

Meantime Cartice had rung for a hall boy, who 
presently tapped at the door. Stepping outside 
she sent him to ask Mrs. Parker to have the kind- 
ness to come and make her a visit. 

The archer promptly fluttered in, all smiles, 
believing there was only plain sailing ahead. 

“ Do you love my husband, Mrs. Parker ? ” 
Cartice asked. 

“ Why, what do you mean ? ” snapped the en- 
raged siren. 

“ I must suppose you love him, because I saw 
you and him kissing each other. I could not 
kiss a man I did not love, and I suppose it must 
be the same with you and all other self-respect- 
ing women. I have been telling him that if you 
and he love each other, I will not stand in your 
way. I want to tell you the same.” 

Mrs. Parker was unaccustomed to this kind of 
a situation. She was only skilled in slyness, not 
in open combat. Embarrassed, she turned to 
Doring, who stood convicted and shrinking, un- 
able to defend himself or her. 

“Mr. Doring,” she said — her voice was dry 
and nervous — “you should have explained to 
your wife that we saw her coming and made a 
foolish attempt to tease her,” 


The End of the Dream. 


101 


‘‘He explains it differently,” said Cartice, 
quietly. “He says you seemed to expect some 
demonstration of affection from him, and he 
‘ made up to you,’ as he calls it, because not to do 
so would be to disappoint and mortify you.” 

Then Parker turned to Doring swelling with 
rage and chagrin, fire and fiame darting from 
her eyes, and then, without a word flounced out 
of the room, and early the next day left the hotel. 

Doring, a victim of the cowardice for which 
his sex is noted when entrapped, began to breathe 
freer. He sent a snort of derision after the re- 
treating charmer. “ There, the sentimental old 
lady will not trouble us again, I fancy,” he said, 
with the air of one who sees the end of a disa- 
greeable affair. 

“ That may be,” said his wife, sadly, “ but it 
cannot put us back in our old places.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Is it necessary to explain what is so clear ? 
This affair has changed my attitude toward you 
entirely. It has killed my confidence in your 
honesty, and revealed your character to me in a 
new light. I can never be the same to you as 
before.” 

Thoroughly frightened he began to cast about 
for bigger straws to catch at. His wife took on 
new value in his eyes. An hour or so before he 
had commiserated himself for being tied to her, 
and had wondered why a being so superior as he 


102 


An Index Finger. 

had ever been attracted to one so ordinary as 
she. Now he wanted to keep her at all costs. 
He was one to whom blessings brightened aston- 
ishingly as they took their flight. 

You don’t mean to say you would leave me 
for a trifle like that, Oartice ? It would be ridic- 
ulous. Everybody would laugh at you. Why, 
that little episode is nothing. You should know 
some of the really reprehensible things married 
men do and think nothing of it. Men don’t 
bother much about loyalty and the flner morali- 
ties, I assure you. They’re good enough for 
women, but men can’t walk that kind of a line, 
you know. Your ideas are too depressingly an- 
tique for the age you live in.” 

What men do and what other women accept 
cannot change my idea of what constitutes mar- 
riage. I will not be a party to a contract kept 
only by one of the two interested. I have seen 
women whose husbands violated every canon of 
decency going on patiently, under the delusion 
that they were doing a virtuous thing. To my 
mind they were encouraging vice. Kisses repre- 
sent feelings. One kisses because one loves. I 
could not kiss a man I did not love because it 
would be repulsive. One is loyal, not because of 
a sense of duty, but because one loves; or dis- 
loyal because one has ceased to love.” 

“Anyway, Oartice, don’t leave me or talk 
about leaving me. You are all I have in the 


The End of the Dream. 


103 


world. Forgive me, and love me if you can. I 
feel mean enough without your contempt.” As 
he said this, Doring flung himself on the floor 
clasping her in his arms and began to weep. 

He does not understand ; he never will under- 
stand — he cannot. He thinks it is something to 
be forgiven and then to go on as before,” she 
said, mentally. 

Anyhow she went on, but not as before. In 
that hour her love for her husband had changed 
its form and face. It had become maternal. 
All hope that they could make the journey of life 
as companions on an equal footing was dead. 

Ho more painful experience can come to a 
proud woman than that of seeing that the man 
she has idealized must be propped up instead of 
leaned against. 

The days went relentlessly on for Cartice 
Doring, as days have a way of doing for every- 
body. One trouble had grown to proportions so 
huge that his hateful shape blotted out all the 
rest, and his name was Poverty. The bread of 
dependence is bitter. Every bite to her was 
heavy as lead. Civilization has many tortures ; 
but it is doubtful if it has any more cruel than 
this. 

Every waking moment Cartice racked her 
brain in the effort to think of some means of 
earning money, and at night when she slept her 
dreams were full of horrors. Thoughts of the 


104 


An Index Finger. 

river obtruded themselves and were driven away 
only to come back more determined in aspect 
than before. 

Somewhere she had read that if every suicide 
would but wait twenty-four hours after determin- 
ing to end life, deliverance would come. So she 
waited, and the worst depression would pass, and 
her courage come slowly back. 

Meantime her husband walked the street in his 
helpless way seeking employment, returning at 
night with the story of failure written on his face. 

Cartice had been used to a busy life, and the 
enforced idleness of those depressing days was 
more of a weariness to both flesh and spirit than 
the hardest labor would have been. In trying to 
escape from her own thoughts she sometimes 
walked long distances. One cold day she was 
accosted by a woman who asked her to buy some 
trifle she was selling. 

“ I wish I could, but I cannot, for I have no 
money,” said Cartice. 

“ Ah, don’t say that,” said the other, with in- 
credulity and disgust in her voice. “ So many 
say it when it isn’t true. It is impossible that 
any one so comfortably dressed as you, is without 
money. Compare your warm and beautiful wrap 
with my thin shawl.” 

“ It is true I have a good cloak,” Cartice an- 
swered, “ but I am probably poorer than you, for 
I cannot pay for either my shelter or my food. 


The End of the Dream. 


105 


Your position is superior to mine, for you are 
trying to earn a livelihood, while I am longing to 
do so and know not where to begin. And 
besides poverty I have other woes from which I 
hope you are exempt. I tell you this that here- 
after you may not judge from appearances. 
Many whom you envy are, perhaps, more mis- 
erable than yourself.” 

Her old childish fancies came back to her 
sometimes, and she would half believe that some 
good fairy would suddenly comfort her and 
mercifully change everything. And her people 
— the dear, kind, fond, ever-courteous people of 
her very own world, unseen by all who had not 
sympathetic eyes, came to comfort her. The 
inner world in which they dwelt afforded her a 
refuge when the miseries of the outer one be- 
came too heavy. Perhaps it was because of much 
time spent there that she scarcely took on the 
ways and speech of this world. There was ever 
something unusual and not easy to understand in 
her presence, something that suggested another 
and a different world. 

my own people, my dear people of my 
dreams ! How far I have wandered in my search 
for others like you clothed in the flesh ! ” she 
said, on returning from a long walk one evening, 
as she looked at the dingy hotel where she was 
obliged to take unwelcome refuge. 

Within was no soul akin to hers, not one whose 


106 


An Index Finger. 

words or presence, in any sense mitigated the 
deep solitude and loneliness of spirit in which she 
lived. 

With it all she was physically wretched. A 
climate that was ungenial, a sunless room and a 
daily diet of anxiety combined had made deep 
inroads on a physique elastic but never rugged. 
Overstrained nature was giving way. For weeks 
her body had been racked with pain. Fevers 
came, tarried awhile and went away to come 
again, and languor had taken entire possession of 
her. 

One day the culmination came. A neighbor 
passing her open door saw Cartice lying helpless 
on the floor where she had fallen. Assistance 
was called and she was lifted to the bed, rigid as 
in death. “ A congestive chill,” said the doctor. 
Then science and humanity united their efforts to 
save her from death and succeeded. When her 
husband came back in the evening, she was 
lying powerless to speak and only faintly con- 
scious of being alive. 

The doctor — may it be a star of great radiance 
on his breast in the unseen world in which he 
now dwells — was attentive and kind to a point 
far beyond the ordinary. He had seen much of 
life and its inevitable suffering. Experience and 
a heart of exceptional goodness enabled him to 
read the signs of the sick soul as well as the sick 
body at a glance. 


The End of the Dream. 


107 


A few days later as he sat by her bedside, 
Cartice edged herself nearer, and laying one of 
her slender hands on his, said, “ I am grateful to 
you, doctor, very grateful for helping me so 
much.” 

The words were commonplace enough, but 
there were the eyes, the wonderful eyes, with 
their strange power to melt the heart, gazing into 
his. The doctor’s soul was shaken, he knew not 
■why. 

“ I don’t understand it,” he mused as he left 
the house. What was it that came out of her 
eyes and unnerved me in a flash, making me 
want to cry like a baby.” At the memory of that 
look, in which the mask of pride fell off and the 
suffering spirit revealed its anguish, the tears 
rushed anew to his eyes. 

No, I don’t understand it,” he repeated, “ but 
if I had been performing a surgical operation of 
the most delicate and dangerous kind, and she 
had looked at me that way, I am afraid I should 
have dropped the knife. What was that indefin- 
able thing I saw in her eyes ? What was it ? 
If anguish can accumulate for ages and ages 
and then look out through a pair of eyes, it was 
that.” 

Days of convalescence came, bringing the de- 
spondency, gloom and sometimes despair that at- 
tack those who have retreated from the edge of 
the grave before they are quite out of sight of it. 


108 


An Index Finger. 

Cartice sat by her window with the breeze 
blowing over her, and it seemed that a thousand 
years had passed since last she saw the spring. 
Watching the people on the street, hurrying 
hither and yon, she envied them their strength, 
their activity, aims and interests. Idle and pur- 
poseless, weary and hopeless, she sat wondering 
what she was to do with the rest of her life. By 
nature she was an outdoor child, who loved field 
and forest and brook and hill. The hateful brick 
walls that stared at her now fatigued her eyes 
and depressed her spirit. When funeral proces- 
sions went by she wondered what mystery the 
narrow black box represented. Sable and sol- 
emn and dreadful as it all was she envied those 
who rode in the long black wagon of death. 
‘‘ At least they are out of this horror,” she said. 

If there be another life its conditions cannot be 
worse than they are here. If there be nothing 
on the other side of death’s silence, then the 
problem is very simple.” 

This great problem at the end of life always 
interested her more than all those to be solved 
on the journey. If death be an open door to 
larger activities and happier conditions, then we 
should bear with courage whatever comes upon 
us here, and go smiling on, indifferent to pain 
and disappointment ; but if all our striving and 
longing, sorrowing and suffering and loving reach 
a finality in the grave, then — no words are strong 


The End of the Dream. 


109 


enough and bitter enough to tell the tragic story 
of the cheat. 

Cartice had always marveled that many could 
see their nearest and dearest pass into that dread 
silence, and yet put the thought of what it is out 
of their minds, and go on pursuing their foolish 
little pleasures exactly as though the riddle was 
not for them also to solve. 


110 


An Index Finger. 


CHAPTEE VI. 

THE BUTTERFLY. 

Well, may there not be butterflies 
That lift with weary wings the air ; 

That loathe the foreign sun, which lies 
On all their colors like despair ; 

That glitter, homesick for the form 

And lost sleep of the worm ? 

— S, 31, B, Piatt, 

In these trying days the neighbor who came 
closest in friendship and loving service, oddly 
enough, was the Butterfly of the house, Mrs. 
Layton. She and her husband had a richly 
furnished suite of rooms near that of the Bor- 
ings. They received many calls, went out fre- 
quently, and appeared to find life well worth 
living. Mrs. Layton was pretty, was always ar- 
rayed as the lilies of the field, and all male hu- 
manity bent the knee before her. 

Cartice’s illness had revealed the unsuspected 
fact that the Butterfly had a heart as well as a 
pair of gorgeous wings. She had been astonish- 
ingly faithful and kind in her attentions, and as- 
tonishingly efficient too, so that now, in the dull 
days of convalescence the two had become close 
friends, the formal wall between them having 


The Butterfly. Ill 

fallen under the pressure of suffering and sym- 
pathy. 

It was the Butterfly who had sent for the 
doctor when Cartice was found unconscious on 
the floor, helped him when he came, and kept a 
watchful eye on his patient afterward. Nothing 
makes such close friends as to help and be helped 
in suffering. We learn to love those to whom 
we do good. 

Cartice had always found a strange enjoyment 
in looking at the Butterfly since she flrst saw 
her, she knew not why. Was she beautiful? 
Yes, she had beauty worthy of a higher order of 
being than a butterfly. That was the marvel of 
it, that she could be a butterfly with a classic 
profile and the eyes of a mystic — eyes that could 
see through all masks. 

Now that Cartice knew her so well the strange 
attraction increased, though she could not de- 
termine wherein lay her remarkable power to 
charm. This power, however, was acknowledged 
on all sides, and many fell under its influence. 
Even on the street, women as well as men turned 
to look after her, though if asked the reason 
could not have told it. The inexplicable quality 
we call magnetism belonged to her to an extraor- 
dinary degree ; but who can explain what that 
is? It attracts; it compels planets as well as 
persons to follow after it; but that is all we 
know about it. 


112 


An Index Finger. 

‘‘Mrs. Doring,” said the Butterfly, one day, 
“you must cheer up or you will die. Worse 
than that, you will make yourself old long before 
your time. I know it isn’t a polite thing to say, 
but you look flve years older than when you 
came to this house.” 

The aching heart of the other swelled almost 
to bursting. The faculty of unburdening her- 
self by friendly confidences had never been hers. 
Something within her stood like a grim sentinel 
forbidding all outlet, and though she yearned for 
sympathy, could not seek it nor meet it with 
loosened tongue when it came. The instinct of 
repression had been fostered by a loveless, lonely 
childhood and lifelong habit. Not a word could 
she utter now, but the eyes, with their pitiful, 
wordless appeal, their unbearable burden, turned 
to the Butterfly, and in one never-to-be-forgotten 
glance laid bare their owner’s broken heart. 
Then with a moan she fell forward, and the long 
repressed agony burst forth in sobs. 

The Butterfly’s arms clasped her closely, her 
tears fell over her, and the words she spoke were 
wiser than a butterfly ever uttered before. The 
greatest mind could not have devised a better 
method of cure for the sick soul than the sympa- 
thetic instincts of this airy creature suggested. 
From that hour between those two no fence or 
wall, or barrier of any kind existed. They knew 
each other as we shall all be known when the 


113 


The Butterfly. 

armors and masks our hypocritical social usages 
have forced upon us shall be laid aside with our 
clay garments. 

“ Dear Mrs. Doring,” said Mrs. Layton, pres- 
ently, “ it is not necessary to tell me what trou- 
bles you. I know it through sympathy. You 
are greatly distressed for lack of money. You 
cannot pay your board, and you and your hus- 
band are strangers here. I dare say you never 
imagined it, but my husband and I are almost 
without a cent in the world, too. We owe this 
house an immense bill for board, and I am afraid 
it will never be paid, for every day the situation 
grows gloomier. It half kills me to go to the 
table, when I know that we are not paying for 
the very food we eat, and I suspect you suffer 
the same way for the same reason. Our outlook 
is as bad as yours, only we are not strangers here 
and you are. Yet being known has its disad- 
vantages as well as its advantages. It is hard to 
be humiliated in the eyes of one’s friends. So 
far our difficulties are not generally known, but 
things too bad to think of are ahead of us, I fear. 
You see I pretend to be sunny and happy. I 
sing and dance and affect to be merry all the 
time — for that is the best way, though I assure 
you my heart often weighs a ton.” 

I am astonished,” said Oartice. I thought 
you a butterfly out and out, with no troubles at 
all,” 


114 


An Index Finger. 

“ Naturally, I believe I am. I love the beau- 
ties and pleasures of life; but nobody knows 
what butterflies are thinking about while they 
are fluttering around looking so care-free and 
joyous. I do the butterfly act now with a fell 
purpose — two fell purposes in fact. I keep 
others from suspecting that things are going 
wrong, and I keep myself from dwelling on my 
troubles. You must learn butterfly philosophy 
too. You must go out and meet people and 
make friends, let yourself out a little and show 
what is in you.” 

I can’t, dear, for many reasons,” and Cartice 
glanced at her well-worn gown, and thought of 
the hopeless condition of her wardrobe. 

“ Clothes, eh ? ” said the other, going straight 
to the point. “ Don’t worry on that score, I am 
handy with a needle and can help you tinker up 
some of your things to look quite flne. I can toss 
up a delicious little bonnet, too.” 

“ But I have no heart in anything,” said Car- 
tice. ‘‘ You don’t know all — no ; you don’t know 
all.” 

“ I know more than you think I do. I know 
precisely what it is to be pitifully disappointed 
in one’s husband, to find that he is the opposite 
of what one thought him, to lose confidence in 
his ability, his manliness, his loyalty and his 
love.” 

‘‘Yes, yes, that is the hardest of all,” wailed 


115 


The Butterfly. 

Cartice, shaken to the soul to learn that what she 
believed hidden was written in big letters on the 
outer walls of her life, as it were. 

“That, too, you must throw off,” said the 
philosophic Butterfly. “ There are few wives 
who haven’t had some of that kind of experience. 
For the most part men are abominable wretches, 
their whole lives made up of deceit and lies. It 
hurt me cruelly, cruelly when I found it out and 
just had to believe it in the face of not wanting 
to ; but now, well — I have taught myself not to 
care very much.” 

“ It seems to me that a wife only ceases to care 
when she ceases to love, and then she ought to 
give her husband up entirely,” said Mrs. Doring. 

“Yes, it is true; when one doesn’t care it is 
because one doesn’t love one’s husband any more. 
Of course, it would be honester, more moral and 
self-respecting to leave him, but we women are 
mostly tied up by different kinds of chains, so 
that no matter how wide our eyes are opened we 
usually go right on pretending we don’t see, and 
so become hypocrites, too. The whole fabric 
seems to be pretty much a warp and woof of lies. 
But I don’t puzzle much over problems as big 
and hard as that. I haven’t the head for it. I 
just edge along the easiest way I can, and leave 
the things I don’t understand, and couldn’t set 
right if I did, for others to puzzle over and fix 
up if they can.” 


116 


An Index Finger. 

Cartice was astonished at the Butterfly’s hard 
trials and airy method of ignoring them. We 
are always astonished to learn that another has 
had the same kind of a load to carry that we 
have borne, all the more if that other has carried 
it gaily. It is common to believe our own ex- 
periences unique. 

“ You are ever so much cleverer than I when 
it comes to things learned out of books,” Mr s. 
Layton went on, “ I have very little of what they 
call learning — too little entirely ; but any one 
can see that you are well instructed. But when 
it comes to knowing about people as they are and 
not as they ought to be, I am far ahead of you, 
though I am only a month or two older. You 
are a mere baby in all that, absolutely blind to 
what I can see across the street ; and you are 
such an earnest, honest, credulous soul that you 
are bound to have your heart broken dozens of 
times while you are learning what you ought to 
know already.” 

“ How did you learn it all so soon ? ” 

“ By experience, the only school whose lessons 
we remember. I was married at seventeen and 
am twenty-four now. One can learn a heap of 
things in seven years, with so good a chance as I 
have had.” (Here the Butterfly’s mouth took on 
a hard and bitter curve, which told more than 
her word of what her sad wisdom had cost.) 
“ That I was romantic goes without saying. I be- 


117 


The Butterfly. 

lieved in the foolish love-stories I read and ex- 
pected life to be like them. Were I clever like 
you, I would write books and tell about life as it 
is and not as novel writers generally pretend it 
is, deluding the ignorant and inexperienced. I 
actually believed there was such a thing as hap- 
piness, and that I could secure it in the usual 
way, by marrying the man I was in love with — 
otherwise the man who had succeeded in casting 
a spell over me that caused me to see him through 
a mist of enchantment, for that is what it means. 
But my fool’s paradise didn’t last long. I soon 
learned to my sorrow that a man out of a book 
is not at all like a man in a book. One shock 
after another came, until at last nothing could 
surprise me. After a time my husband began to 
drink heavily and does yet, and that is what has 
brought us to poverty. When he is bad drunk 
he is ugly and dangerous. In short, my life is 
hard and hateful ’way down out of sight.” 

“ O my friend,” cried Cartice, with glistening 
eyes, “ it is a tragedy, and I thought nobody suf- 
fered as I do.” 

Mrs. Layton continued : When I married I 
loved him, was proud of him, believed in him. 
Now I only pity him, and care for him only as a 
mother cares for a child. Could he read my 
thoughts his vanity, should he have any left, 
must suffer. Such men lose far more than we do, 
after all, but they are so steeped in selfishness, 


118 


An Index Finger. 

so besotted in ignorance, they can’t see it. And 
he has wretched health, as any one may see. I 
don’t know what the end will be, and dare not 
think of it.” 

1 wish we could know what such experiences 
mean,” said Cartice. What is suffering for ? 
Why must it be ? We try hard to find the right 
road ; we do the best we can ; the way looks fair 
and smooth, and then from no fault of our own 
that we can see we are plunged into dark depths. 
I wish we knew the reason of it, the purpose of 
it. I wish we knew.” 

It is rather strange, Mrs. Doring, that I tell 
you everything so frankly. I have never been 
so confidential with any one before. Chatterer 
as I appear to be I am as proud as Clara Yere de 
Yere, and keep my own affairs to myself ; but in 
talking with you everything bubbles right out, 
yet you never ask any questions. I shouldn’t 
mind telling you anything, even if it wasn’t to 
my credit, I feel so much confidence in you, and 
somehow it helps me to tell you. I was attracted 
to you from the first, but you were so reserved 
and unapproachable that if it had not been for 
this illness of yours, I doubt if we ever should 
have become so well acquainted. You have a 
curious effect on me. I couldn’t tell a fib to you 
nor to any one in your presence if I wanted to, 
and yet it has always been easy to me to tell 
little bits of lies about things that couldn’t hurt 


119 


The Butterfly. 

any one. I never thought there was any harm in 
it. But somehow I can’t do it when you are 
near, nor even when I think of you, and I 
shouldn’t wonder if I gave up the habit alto- 
gether. Do you remember one day before you 
got sick, when several of us were in the parlor 
and I had a new fan and the rest were admiring 
it?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, Mrs. Orton asked me how much it cost. 
Of course it’s the worst of manners to ask the 
price of things, but one meets plenty of imper- 
tinent, ill-bred people as one goes along, and 
must be civil to them. I was about to tell her 
that it cost five dollars, though it only cost two, 
when I saw you looking at me, and quick as a 
flash out came the truth. You didn’t know the 
price of it, so I wasn’t afraid you would catch me 
in a fib; but I was ashamed not to speak the 
truth in your presence. Your eyes look into one, 
deep down inside, and expect to see everything 
there sweet and clean and honest, and I could 
not disappoint them.” 

“ You can’t be half so wicked as you represent 
yourself, for you have one of the sweetest faces I 
ever saw, and one of the most beautiful,” said 
Mrs. Doring, with fervent admiration. 

The Butterfly lilted out a significant little 
laugh. “ Yes, I have been told that I have an 
innocent face ; but that is a freak of nature, for 


120 


An Index Finger. 

I am not innocent. I am tolerably — ^yes, toler- 
ably Avell informed on some subjects, and I do 
one thing that you will consider abominable, I 
flirt.” 

Dear friend, do tell me exactly what it is to 
flirt,” Cartice asked, entreatingly. She remem- 
bered that her husband had taken refuge in that 
word on the occasion of the affair with Mrs. 
Parker. 

The Butterfly looked at her pityingly. ‘‘If 
any other woman asked me that question,” she 
said, “ I should be sure she was a villain of the 
deepest dye, and was affecting ignorance in order 
to pull the wool over my eyes ; but you are such 
a muff about such things that I can readily be- 
lieve you don’t know. It isn’t very easy to ex- 
plain. Words can’t describe it very well. Not 
mincing matters in my case it’s making a bid for 
the attention of men and getting it.” 

“ Politeness demands that ladies receive atten- 
tion from gentlemen,” said the unsophisticated 
Mrs. Doring, innocently. 

“ My benighted friend, your name should be 
Galatea. I don’t mean mere polite attention, 
but particular attention, sentimental, lover-like 
attention, with a strong flavor of danger in it.” 

Cartice began to understand. “ What comes 
of it ? ” she asked. 

A shrug of Mrs. Layton’s graceful shoulders. 
“Nothing, often. Sometimes — well, there are 


121 


The Butterfly. 

extraordinary cases, and at the beginning it’s 
best not to think of the end.” 

“ What do you get out of it ? ” 

Another shrug. Come to think of it, noth- 
ing particular, unless it be distraction.” 

“ And those who flirt with you, — ^^how do they 
come out ? ” 

“ Some of them have the bad taste to become 
serious, which makes it rather awkward. Then 
they have to be sent off for good, and perhaps 
they wail about bruised hearts and such like, 
which I don’t mind. They never get a whack 
amiss. What I don’t owe them some other 
woman does. I only help to even up for women 
in general.” 

“ But you might grow serious, too, some time.” 

I am not afraid, because I have no heart any 
more. It is as dead as the traditional door-nail. 
I can dance nearer the edge of a precipice than 
anybody else and keep my head.” 

Some do go over, don’t they ? ” 

“Yes; poor fools with hearts who ought not 
to play in that kind of a game.” 

“ It is something I know nothing whatever 
about, but it appears to be both perilous and un- 
profitable,” said Cartice. 

“ You are quite right in your conclusion. The 
liquor habit is also perilous and unprofitable, yet 
the man addicted to it keeps right on in it. One 
must do something to keep from remembering 


122 


An Index Finger. 

certain other things. With me it’s a case of 
keeping my mind off misery. I got into it be- 
cause in the first year of my married life my 
husband neglected me shamefully, spending most 
of his time with a mincing little woman who 
posed for goodness itself. For a time I broke 
my heart over it ; all women do. Then I braced 
up and began to administer his own medicine to 
him, only not in such repugnantly large doses. 
We all do things it would be better not to do, 
because somebody else does us an injury. We 
get into one trouble in trying to escape from an- 
other. It’s merely a matter of choice between 
the frpng pan and the fire, — a puzzle far too 
deep for my light head to work on.” 

Nothing is accidental. We meet the people 
we are destined to meet, and with their help or 
hindrance work out our problem, be it hard or 
easy. The most feather-weight of mortals may 
prove our greatest teacher. In whose keeping 
we shall find the most precious treasures we 
know not. But it was written in the great un- 
opened book that the Butterfly was to be help 
and healing to the bruised heart of Cartice Bor- 
ing, and to bear a torch which should light for 
her the very darkest page of life. 

When affairs are at their worst a change has 
to come. Misery itself does not stand stiU. It 
moves slowly, nevertheless it moves. The 


123 


The Butterfly. 

finances of the Laytons and Dorings had reached 
the stage of desperation. Colonel Layton found 
the situation too grave to face without frequent 
liquefactions. The result was that he escaped 
facing it altogether, for he forgot it completely 
during the day, and at night went into a stupor 
too profound for landlords or other monsters to 
invade. 

The Butterfly and Cartice thought of a means 
of extricating themselves at last. They decided 
to leave the hotel, take lodgings and eat, Bohe- 
mian fashion, when they could pay for it, and fast 
when they had no money. 

They found furnished rooms, side by side, 
which they provided with some tiny traps for 
cooking, by selling some of the Butterfly’s per- 
sonal treasures. To the surprise of the others. 
Colonel Layton volunteered to go daily to market 
and bring in supplies for both families, a task he 
performed for some time with a faithfulness not 
natural to his character, which was uncertain and 
ease-loving to the last degree. He went early 
and returned loaded like a porter. Among his 
purchases, cream cheese in liberal quantities was 
always a certainty. This was the bait that lured 
him to the market. He had a boyish fondness 
for it, and like a boy was willing to go out of his 
way to get it. 

Cartice and the Butterfly rejoiced in each other 
jnore and more every day. They shared their 


124 


An Index Finger. 

money and whatever else they possessed freely, 
and the unqualified frankness of their confidences 
was salvation for them. To tell a trouble to 
sympathetic ears is, in a measure, to throw it off. 
Eepression kills, but expression is life. The seed 
that sends a plant upward from the earth ex- 
presses itself. Were conditions such that it could 
not do so, it would die and rot away in the dark- 
ness. 

The blessed Butterfly, whose extraordinary 
baptismal name of Chrissalyn, fitted her so ex- 
quisitely, had a far nobler mission in the world 
than she herself dreamed. 

Mrs. Boring continued to search for the mean- 
ing of things. She had sought happiness and 
found wretchedness, and in the first anguish of 
disappointment failed to see that she was not the 
only one who had had a fruitless quest. There 
was the Butterfly whose experience was the 
same, and many others, now that she thought of 
it. Perhaps all had more or less disappointment 
were their inner lives known. 

Dimly she began to see that the pursuit of 
happiness could not be the true purpose of life, 
though all the world assumed that it was. Her 
dream of conjugal companionship had vanished 
altogether. There were times when she hated 
her husband, times when she pitied him, times 
when she despised him, and times when she tried 
to believe that she loved him, — must love him or 


125 


The Butterfly. 

die. Had any soul in the universe so yearned 
for love as she and been from birth so stinted of 
it ? Behind the immobile mask that hid her 
proud, suffering heart from other eyes, her soul 
cried for it. What could not she have endured, 
with a laugh on her face and a song on her lips, 
had love walked by her side? Could poverty 
or any other terror which civilization has nursed 
daunt her then ? JSTo, a thousand times no, she 
said. 

Her own troubles diminished, however, in the 
presence of the heavier ones under which Chrissa- 
lyn now staggered. 

Colonel Layton was going down hill distress- 
ingly fast, and nothing could be done to save 
him. His health was broken, his wits muddled 
and wandering most of the time, and the end of 
his resources at hand. He had let go his anchor- 
age and was drifting to his destruction, careless 
of wind or tide. 

Meantime the brave Butterfly smiled before 
the world and chatted cheerily when her friends 
called, though with her heart in her mouth, and 
her ear ever alert for her husband’s wavering 
footsteps. When she heard the unwelcome 
sound, she made excuse and went outside to in- 
tercept his entrance. Usually at such times he 
was pathetically obedient, and sat where she 
placed him, in some vacant room or dark cor- 
ner of the hall, till her visitors left and she 


126 


An Index Finger. 

came for him. To be sure he complained and 
whined and swore in a rambling way without 
rage, yet when Chrissalyn came he went with 
her like a wornout child. However, he was not 
always so tractable. There were times when he 
blustered and threatened, and his eyes had a 
light dancing in them that made one’s blood run 
cold. 

One night Mrs. Doring could not sleep, a sense 
of impending danger oppressed her. Getting up 
and putting on a wrapper, she went to a window 
and looked into the street. All was still, and yet 
somewhere she fancied she heard mutterings. 
On going into the hall she saw the Laytons’ door 
open, the lights at full flare, and, to her surprise, 
the colonel, fully dressed, sitting in the doorway 
whetting a razor, with a slow, sibilant stroke, 
which seemed to give him extraordinary pleas- 
ure, for he smiled in a gratified way and his eyes 
twinkled like stars. There was no fury in his 
face, but something far more dreadful — the look 
of a lunatic who meditates a deed he considers 
delightful. Sitting by the window, opposite the 
door, was Chrissalyn, clad only in her sleeping 
gown, with a face white and rigid, and a pistol 
held firmly in her hand. 

At sight of the scene Cartice grew cold with 
fright ; but she went close to Colonel Layton and 
was about to speak, when, without pausing in his 
razor whetting, he said, gently, “ Go away, now, 


The Butterfly. 127 

Mrs. Doring, and come back a little later if you 
want to.” 

In spite of the apparently innocent words, she 
felt that behind them lurked some terrible inten- 
tion. If she called help the arrival of others 
might precipitate whatever horror lurked in his 
mad mind. 

Chrissalyn heard everything but said nothing, 
and her silence was eloquently ominous. 

“ Why should I come again if I go away ? ” 
she asked, thinking to lead his mind from the 
work in hand. 

Shrugging his shoulders significantly, he said. 
Merely to see sights,” and then laughed the low 
satisfied laugh of one who knows and enjoys 
things his listener dreams not of. 

What sights ? ” 

Another shrug. His vanity, ever strong, over- 
came his secretiveness, and he could not refrain 
from boasting of his intended exploits. ‘^The 
last of Chrissalyn and me,” he said, presently, 
with a chuckle. ‘‘ I’m tired of the whole damned 
business of living, and shall give it up, but I 
shan’t leave her behind me. Oh, no ! She goes 
first.” 

Though chilled to the marrow at this cool 
statement, whose truth the scene and the hour 
confirmed, Cartice pretended to put no stress 
upon it. Hurriedly racking her brains for some 
pretence for her call and pretext for his services, 


128 


An Index Finger. 

she said, “ I’m sorry to trouble you just now, 
Colonel, but Louis is very sick, and I want you to 
go and ring up Barton’s night clerk and get some 
whiskey for him as soon as you can. You are 
always so kind and obliging ; I’m sure you won’t 
mind my bothering you.” He was ever the most 
easily flattered creature. Then, too, there Avas 
magic for him in the word whiskey. 

‘‘You’ll go, won’t you?” she asked, entreat- 
ingly, as he made no answer. 

“Yes, yes, of course,” he replied, absently 
holding the razor close to his eyes and looking 
critically at its edge, but making no move. 

“You will excuse me if I beg you to make 
haste, please,” she continued. “ Poor Louis is in a 
wretched state.” 

He got up slowly, took his hat and began to 
Avaver about the room, still holding the open razor 
in his hand. As he moved toward Chrissalyn she 
raised the hand that clutched the pistol, and her 
eyes had a steady, determined look that said she 
would defend herself to the death. 

“ Come, Colonel,” cried Cartice, apparently in 
good-natured haste, “ I hear Louis groaning. 
Please go as quickly as you can.” He laid the 
razor down and Avent out and doAvn the stairs as 
docile as a dog. 

Chrissalyn fell forward in a dead faint. When 
she returned to consciousness, limp and pale, and 
Cartice suggested taking her into her apartment, 


129 


The Butterfly. 

lest the Colonel return, she smiled feebly, say- 
ing, There is no danger. He will not be back 
in ten or twelve hours. You probably think this 
scene unusual, but its like has occurred several 
times before. Once I had to shoot, and the ball 
went through his hat. The shock of it was 
almost too much for me, for I thought I had 
killed him.” 

“ My poor Chriss, you must leave him, and not 
run such risks any more. One such experience 
is enough to make you grey-headed.” 

“ I stay on because I can do no other thing, 
and if I could I should stay to take care of him, 
poor, helpless, wandering soul that he is. He 
will come home to-morrow weak as a baby, go to 
bed and lie there helpless for weeks.” 

She was a true prophet. At midnight of the 
next day he crept wearily up the stairs, a feeble, 
disheveled, miserable figure, with a pale, peaked 
face, and faded, watery eyes. Taking refuge in 
bed, he arose no more for over a month. 

These days of terror and anxiety were telling 
seriously on the Butterfly, ever a fragile being, 
who hung to earth seemingly by the most deli- 
cate thread. The pity of it was that she loved 
life so. Even as it had disclosed itself to her, 
full of disappointment, of tragedy, heartache and 
humiliation, with want menacing her daily and 
trouble elbowing her at every step, still she loved 
it. Her ideal was not particularly exalted. 


130 


An Index Finger. 

Given pretty clothes and surroundings, a few 
pleasant friends, a modest retinue of moths to 
circle round her and a few gold pieces to jingle 
in her purse, and she could squeeze joy out of life 
stiU. But remember she was a butterfly. 


Opportunity. 


131 


CHAPTEE VII. 

OPPORTUNITY. 

“ A new friend is a new fortune.” 

You have sometimes known happiness, eh ? Yes, the hap- 
piness of others . — Aresene Houssaye, 

One Sunday morning Mrs. Coring sat at a 
window, making a sketch of a figure she saw on 
the opposite side of the street, when Chrissalyn, 
who had entered by the open door, went near 
and looked over her shoulder with the familiarity 
of close friendship. 

‘‘Why, how wonderful!” she exclaimed, the 
most fiattering admiration in her voice and face. 
“ That’s Gabriel Norris, the street preacher, a 
local celebrity. You’ve done him to perfection 
— even better than he looks himself — that is, I 
see something in his expression here that I never 
saw in him, and yet I believe he has it after all. 
The picture brings it out strong. I can’t tell 
just what it is, but it makes me want to cry.” 

The eyes of the sketcher glowed with an in- 
describable light — the light which the intangible, 
potent, holy thing we call appreciation calls from 
the depths of human souls. To portray nature so 
that the most heedless and untaught see the soul of 


132 


An Index Finger. 

the subject and are able for the moment to roam 
about in that awesome country, — with the artist, 
and feel his heart-throbs — is ever the dream of 
art. By the effect of her work on the Butterfly, 
Cartice realized that in this modest drawing she 
had accomplished this. 

“ There, he is moving on and the boys he has 
been talking to are going with him,” said Chriss- 
alyn, leaning out of the window. “ He preaches 
every Sunday morning at the South Market, and 
is probably on his way there now. He is a queer 
fellow, though he belongs to a rich and respect- 
able family who are greatly mortified at his 
peculiar doings. But he hasn’t lived with them 
for ten years, nor taken a cent from them. He 
has a little cobbler’s shop away down town in 
the very ugliest part of the city, and supports 
hiniself making and mending shoes, and does ex- 
cellent work, they say. On Sundays, and other 
odd times he preaches to people who are too poor 
to go to church, and does lots of other things for 
them besides. You see he is cheaply dressed, 
though as clean as a pin. He could have better 
clothes, but doesn’t want them — has views about 
such things — says he does not want to be sep- 
arated from the people he tries to help by being 
better dressed than they are. Of course he is an 
out-and-out crank, but wasn’t always so. A dozen 
years ago nobody was fonder of the good things of 
the world. He was the leader of the very swellest 


Opportunity. 133 

social doings. All at once he took a turn in the 
opposite direction — said he had been wasting his 
life, and was going to put what remained of it to 
some use. Some say an unlucky love affair set 
him off ; others that he had a dream or vision 
that changed him. At this very moment I dare 
say his father and family are rolling to church — 
the swellest church here — in their fine carriage. 
But Gabriel preaches against the rich — or at 
least against the selfish use they make of their 
money, and prophesies no end of difllculty for 
them here and hereafter if they keep on as they 
are going. I have always laughed at him, but I 
never shall again, because your picture of him 
gives me a queer thrill and lets me see into him 
as I never did before. But how did you get the 
features, the expression, — everything so perfect, 
seeing him only from the window ? ” 

I saw him a few days ago, with his head bare, 
just as I have him here, preaching to a little 
group on a street corner,” said Cartice. 
stopped a moment to listen, and his face has been 
often in my mind since. So when I saw him 
from the window, this morning, talking to the 
boys, I hurried to make a sketch of him.” 

Then looking up, with an eager light in her 
mottled eyes, she said, “ Chrissalyn, let us go and 
hear him. You say he speaks to the poor. We 
are of them. Who needs help more ? Let us 
go.” 


134 : 


An Index Finger. 

The Butterfly gave but a grudging consent. 
She was the natural enemy of all serious instruc- 
tion. As they went she babbled on about 
Gabriel Norris : 

‘^As he was bent on preaching, his father 
wanted him to go to a theological college and be 
shaped up into a flrst-class regulation preacher, 
wear the correct thing in clothes, have a fashion- 
able church, gilt-edged Bible, velvet pulpit cush- 
ions, fat salary and everything that goes to make 
preaching respectable ; but Gabriel wouldn’t 
have it that way. He said there was more than 
enough of that kind of thing; that what he 
wanted to say to people had nothing in common 
with theological factories, and as for pulpit cush- 
ions and the like they were abominations in the 
sight of the Lord; that Jesus had none of them, 
nor would he have.” 

The scene at the market-house was one to take 
hold upon the heart. The people who sat there 
on rude benches were all from the bitter land of 
indigence. Its hard conditions were written in 
their faces, their poor garments, stooping shoul- 
ders, weary and awkward attitudes. Many 
women were there, for women are ever found 
where a word of promise and hope is to be spoken, 
and that fact is eloquent of what they suffer, of 
the bitterness of their disappointments, of the 
weight of their sorrows, of the hunger of their 
hearts and the yearning of their spirits. • 


Opportunity. 135 

Before the preacher had spoken ten minutes 
Cartice was under the spell of his oratory, which 
was simple, strong and sympathetic. It wasn’t 
preaching. It was the life-giving, hope-inspiring 
talk of a loving friend, and it went to the hearts 
of his hearers and there awoke nobler aspirations. 
He said nothing of seeing evil in them. Instead, 
he told them how good they were — ^much better 
and higher than they themselves had dreamed ; 
that possibilities of wonderful and beautiful 
growth were in every one of them; that they 
had an eternity in which to grow, and on them- 
selves depended their well-being now and forever. 

It was good to see the light of self-respect come 
into their dull eyes under the potent spell of the 
young preacher’s earnest words. Some of them 
had shrunk internally to almost nothing, under 
the blight of the self-depreciation which close 
intimacy with grinding poverty begets. Now 
their souls began to gather confidence and stand 
erect, conscious of their own value. 

‘‘My dear ones,” he said, “don’t make the 
blunder of thinking that the aim of life is to be 
happy. Do not spend your time hunting happi- 
ness, seeking it where it never was and never 
will be — in the external things of life, in posses- 
sions that pass even while you use them, in pleas- 
ures that leave a bitter taste in the mouth and 
a regret in the heart. I doubt not that our Di- 
vine Father intended us to be happy, but not in 


136 


An Index Finger. 

the way we imagine. His way is so very clear 
and simple, and yet we are so blind we see it 
not, and wander in such hard paths, and lose our- 
selves often. It is to love each other. Ever so 
brief a trial of this way proves it the true one. 
But to love each other does not mean to love 
only your own families, your friends and those 
who treat you well. It means to love everybody, 
even your enemy. When you love your enemy, 
a miracle happens. He ceases to be your enemy. 
Love always and to the end. 

When we love as we should we do not ques- 
tion whether we are happy or not. Then another 
miracle happens. We are happy, for we taste 
the highest order of happiness, that of forgiving 
and loving our enemies, of giving out good will 
and kindness to all, of making others happy. 
The less we think of our own happiness the hap- 
pier we shall be. 

^^Did any man or woman whose life has helped 
the world go about complaining because he or 
she was not happy ? Serve others, thinking not 
of yourselves and, without knowing the hour of 
the great transformation, you will find you are 
already a dweller within the kingdom of heaven. 

Love, and judge not — that is, don’t find fault. 
When you learn to love, you will not wish to 
judge ; you will not see the faults ; you will see 
only the good in everybody.” 

The Butterfly would have found the experi- 


Opportunity. 137 

ence dull, but that on the edge of the assemblage 
she spied a handsome male acquaintance. This 
enabled her to await the end of the lecture with 
heroic patience. Her face wore an expression 
indicative of complete indiJfference to his presence, 
for that was part of her method of attracting 
moths, though in fact she saw nothing and 
thought of nothing but him. It goes without say- 
ing that as soon as Gabriel Horris had dismissed 
his people, this imposing moth was by her side. 
She greeted him with demure civility, as though 
he was the most ordinary apparition that could 
loom up — for that, too, was in her tactics — then 
presented him to Cartice as Mr. Prescott. 

He had a reverent way with women, unstudied 
and natural, which usually won their good will 
and sometimes more at the first meeting. He 
took her hand with old-fashioned friendliness, 
and as he looked into her face, and her eyes met 
his, the mask of self-repression she had been 
wearing slipped aside for a moment, and her sore 
and suffering spirit stood in mute appeal before 
him, and he saw and understood. 

Show Mr. Prescott your sketch, Mrs. Boring, 
please,” said the Butterfly. Without demur 
Cartice opened her sketch book which she had 
brought to give the finishing touches to Gabriel’s 
picture. Prescott started in surprise when he saw 
it. After a moment or so of silence, he said, It 
is admirable.” 


138 


An Index Finger. 

Mrs. Doring’s face glowed. A word of praise 
with the genuine ring in it warmed her heart to 
the core. 

^‘You draw well, too, Mrs. Layton,’’ he said, 
with a significant smile ; “ but not in the same 
way.” 

The Butterfly disdained to reply. Turning to 
Cartice, with the most winning deference, he said, 
“I should like to purchase your sketch, when 
completed, Mrs. Boring. I want to publish it. 
Write me a description of the services here this 
morning, to go with it, will you not? You can 
write, I know without asking.” (Mentally — If 
she would write what her eyes tell it would move 
the world.) 

‘‘Mr. Prescott is the editor of the Register 
said the Butterfly, by way of explanation. 

“I shall be delighted to do so,” Cartice an- 
swered, with swelling heart. 

“ And do some more of the same kind of work 
afterward. I want things like that — plenty of 
them,” he said. 

As they talked together Gabriel Norris joined 
them, for he and the newspaper man were old 
friends. Cartice thanked him earnestly for his 
helpful words, saying frankly that she needed 
them as much as as any of his hearers. Accus- 
tomed to the indifference and contempt of that 
part of the public which should have understood 
him, and to the stupidity of that which could not, 


Opportunity. 139 

he had long used himself to live without praise ; 
but he was human, and his heart was lighter and 
Avarmer for a word of appreciation. 

Cartice walked home on air. The long lane of 
her misery was turning. A chance to work had 
come to her, and that meant a means of climbing 
out of the slough of despond. Idleness is the 
prelude to decay, an invitation to destruction. 
Enforced idleness, when the spirit longs for 
activity, and yet finds itself hedged in, helpless, 
cut off from opportunity, is the death of hope, 
the very day of doom for the soul. Now that 
was all over. The ladder that leads out of de- 
spondency and on to the best the world has to give 
was before her, her feet already on its first 
round. 

She could hardly wait to get home and write 
the description that Avas to accompany the draAv- 
ing. It took shape as she Avent, one sentence 
chasing another in her mind, all eager for expres- 
sion, which is but another word for life. 

The Butterfiy had a new theme to chatter 
about — Prescott and his doings, though her com- 
panion scarcely heard her, so deep was she in her 
new dreamland of action. 

Prescott is a genius, they all say, though a 
capital fellow, nevertheless. Nobody can back 
him down, for he fears neither man nor devil, 
and I like that. He is divorced from his Avife 
who was considerable of a fiend, I guess, and no 


140 


An Index Finger. 

doubt he is too, on occasions. She married again. 
It was lucky we went to hear Gabriel. One 
never knows where one may encounter a streak 
ol good fortune, — even at so unexpected a place 
as church sometimes.” 

Though but few words had been exchanged 
the famished spirit of Cartice Coring had been 
refreshed by meeting Prescott and Gabriel 
Norris. Words are but a cumbrous means of 
communion anyway. When we better under- 
stand the laws of our being we shall need them 
less. Our thought goes forth and becomes a 
part of others, by a subtler method than articulate 
speech; and this is why no man can live unto 
himself, and why if one be lifted up he lifts up 
others also. 

The turning point in ill fortune had come, sure 
enough. The very next day Coring announced 
that he had “ dropped into something.” It was 
not a chance to make a fortune, but it was — well, 
just what he said — something. 

Is it not true that there are persons who bring 
us good luck from the very moment they cros^i 
our paths, and others who dower us with ill-for- 
tune as long as we are associated with them? 
Mascots and Jonahs are realities, not myths. 
Meeting Gordon Prescott and Gabriel Norris had 
turned the tide for Mrs. Coring. One had opened 
the gate of opportunity, and the other had given 
her a kind of help not easy to label. It might be 


Opportunity. 141 

described by saying that she felt better for hav- 
ing met him. 

Her sketch of him, with an accompanying 
word picture of the scene at the market-house 
went promptly to the Register^ and was re- 
sponded to in person by Prescott, who brought 
her a crisp five dollar note, said an appreciative 
word or two in his curt, laconic way, and re- 
peated the order for more. 

The joy of expression took hold of her, and to 
her great amazement her pen could more than 
keep pace with her pencil. Its creations were 
distinguished by an originality, a strength and 
grace that at once attracted attention. To her 
the pleasure she found in writing was not in the 
admiration it excited, but in the doing of it, — in 
the never-ceasing surprise that she could do it so 
well. Sometimes when she read her own pro- 
ductions after the fire that created them had died 
out, they seemed new and strange to her, like the 
work of another. An apparently inexhaustible 
well within herself had been opened, into which 
she could reach at will and draw forth sparkling 
draughts. In this way she became aware of the 
complexity, temerity and unfathomableness of 
that wondrous, unseen, indescribable thing we call 
mind, which has everlastingly within it all that 
is, was or shall be. 

It astonished her to see the facility with which 
her pen danced humorous jigs, fiung off diamonds 


142 


An Index Finger. 

of wit, and set in motion rippling waves of 
laughter. It was strange that she who was but 
emerging from the valley of despair, and whose 
life so far had had in it but little of the glitter of 
pleasure, could write as one who knew the light, 
the joyous, the mirthful, the happy side of ex- 
istence. 

Yet even in her most jaunty and jubilant prod- 
ucts, here and there would be a bold, strong 
stroke of another kind, which made the reader 
know that he was following no light soul. In 
all she wrote, whether grave or gay, were the 
“ fresh eyes,” to which we give the name of orig- 
inality, and another quality, for which we have 
no name, which moves us, we know not why. 

When it began to be rumored that the Begis- 
ter’s new writer was a woman, the smart people, 
who knew everything, shook their heads and 
sniffed incredulously, saying that there was too 
much force in the work ; that the style was not 
womanish — ^it was Prescott in disguise. They 
expected the apron-strings to flutter conspicu- 
ously from every page prepared by a feminine 
hand. For them genius has sex and that sex is 
always male. 

It must not be understood that these early ef- 
forts of my heroine were worthy a place among 
the works of genius. They were only fresh, 
spirited, striking sketches of life as their author 
saw it, and they went into the great ocean of 


Opportunity. 143 

newspaper literature here, there and all about, 
that lives but for a day. Some of them, it is 
true, found a pathetic scrap-book immortality. 
Others were picked up by mightier periodicals than 
the Register^ and given a flatteringly wide circula- 
tion, and a few met the dreary fate of getting 
into imposingly bound collections of “ Literary 
Gems,” there to rest in undisturbed security on 
village parlor tables for many a year to come. 

In a few weeks Mrs. Boring had the felicity 
to be installed as associate editor of the Register, 
Her salary was not muniflcent, as salaries usually 
are in Action. Let no one imagine that all aspir- 
ants get an opportunity to do newspaper work 
and ascend the ladder as easily. Her good luck 
in this particular could be traced to her fltness 
for the position. Prescott soon discovered that 
besides having extraordinary ability and origi- 
nality as a writer, she had what he called the 
“editorial instinct,” which, being interpreted, 
meant that she knew instinctively what an at- 
tractive newspaper should contain. 

In novels it is always easy to get to the top. 
In that respect the people who live in books have 
a much better time than they who live outside 
of them. There young heroes make dazzling 
flights up the journalistic mountains. A young 
man comes out of college, writes something for 
a powerful daily newspaper, whose editor at once 
begs him to accept a lucrative situation thereon. 


144 


An Index Finger. 

He allows himself to be persuaded, after some 
hesitation, and takes advantage of the opportu- 
nity for distinction thrust upon him, after which 
he goes up without delay or hindrance, till he 
becomes editor-in-chief, owns the paper and is a 
recognized power in the land. But in real life, 
alas ! the get-there road is a harder one to travel. 

Another thing in real life is managed less ex- 
cellently than in fiction. The women who do 
newspaper work, too frequently have a little 
place fenced off to operate in. This is called 

Woman’s Corner,” or “ Woman’s Work,” or 
“Woman’s World,” and therein the entire fe- 
male part of the population is supposed to find 
satisfactory news aliment. There the whole 
mass of reading women are expected to pasture 
in peace and plenty. And why not? There 
they can find out just how long a sponge cake 
should be left in the oven, what is the best lo- 
tion for the complexion, how to polish their fin- 
ger nails, the latest thing in embroidery stitches, 
the newest style in visiting cards, the most ap- 
proved method of conducting an afternoon tea, 
and no end of valuable and ennobling informa- 
tion in regard to what “ they ” are wearing. 

Beside all this indispensable instruction the 
corner is sure to contain many proud allusions to 
that terrible scourge, the “ true woman,” who is 
always found sitting serenely within her 
“ sphere,” her feet on a hassock, her embroidery 


Opportunity. 145 

in hand, ignorance in her head, selfishness in 
her heart, vanity and jealousy written all over 
her feeble face, saying that she ‘‘has rights 
enough,” just as she would say she has bread 
enough. But evolution, that “ slow performance 
of miracles,” will eventually oust even this 
stumbling-block in the path of human progress. 

Cartice Doring was not a “ true woman,” nor 
was her work on the Register to be found in a 
“corner,” neither had it a fence of any kind 
about it, seen or unseen, nor was it addressed to 
women more than to men. As she saw it, news- 
papers were for all and dealt with matters of in- 
terest to all humankind. 

Happily Prescott thought the same. He held 
almost no opinions dear to the average mind, 
and scarcely ever put pen to paper without tear- 
ing up the ground under the feet of those who 
insisted upon thinking “ the same thoughts their 
fathers did think.” He had founded the Regis- 
ter and made it the vehicle of his opinions rather 
than a mere news journal. These opinions were 
invariably so new and daring, and so entertain- 
ingly expressed that his worst enemies could not 
deny themselves the pleasure of reading them. 
Hence it was that the Register was a fiying suc- 
cess. 

As it was well known that Prescott was as 
ready and able with his revolver as with his pen, 
his views on current events were respected, and 


146 


An Index Finger. 

seldom openly disputed. He was the mortal 
enemy of fools and fogies, and found his chief 
joy in outraging that chaos of ignorance and 
prejudice we call public opinion. In short he 
was brilliant, bold, witty, kind and cruel — a tre- 
mendous engine with sand in the joints. 

Mrs. Doring found her new field of activity 
stimulating and delightful. It had been her be- 
lief that happiness could be made of but two in- 
gredients — companionship and congenial employ- 
ment. Now that she had the latter, the want of 
the former troubled her less. Besides, she met 
many people, and the contact of sympathetic 
minds is to ’ another what moisture is to vegeta- 
tion — keeping it alive and invigorating it. In a 
day, as it were, the world had expanded, and she 
was in touch with its heart, vibrating in sympa- 
thy with its deep pulsations. 

She learned much of human nature, particu- 
larly gifted human nature, for the Register had 
literary leanings, and many of its friends, men 
and women, who came to chat a vast half-hour 
in the informal editorial den, were toiling up 
the narrow way that leads to eminence and 
fame. 

Some have achieved the fulfilment of their 
dreams and are now enjoying their little day of 
renown. Others had but a taste of the delirious 
cup of renown when they were called into the 
silence. Some grew weary and ceased to strive, 


Opportunity. 147 

and some are still plodding on in the old road, 
having neither lost nor gained ground. 

As a matter of course, enemies arose. The 
spiteful, the envious, the jealous, the bitter- 
hearted, the undeveloped must needs have their 
little fling at the woman whose pen was a power. 
But Cartice was too busy to heed them. Scarcely 
had she time to ask herself if she were happy. 
“Almost,” she said, when she thought of it, 
though it was a different kind of happiness from 
that of her earlier dreams. 


148 


An Index Finger. 


CHAPTER VIII. 
death’s narrow sea. 

The child that enters life comes not with knowledge or intent ; 
So those who enter death must go as little children sent. 
Nothing is known, but I believe that God is overhead ; 

And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead. 

— Mary Majpes Dodge, 

One morning Cartice met Colonel Layton in 
the hall, as he was about to go out for the day. 
His unusual appearance struck her at once. He 
was clean shaven and carefully dressed ; his face 
was pale and no signs or fumes of liquor were 
upon or about him. This, of itself, was enough to 
attract particular attention ; but there was more. 
An indefinable something in his manner asked 
for sympathy in a silent way, like an animal ; 
and in his eyes which of late were unusually 
glassy and vacant, was an expression of reminis- 
cent sadness, such as comes to the eyes of those 
who in a quiet, self-questioning hour, look back 
upon their lives and see scenes that bring regret. 
Cartice felt her heart stirred by a wish to com- 
fort him. 

Perhaps he was conscious of that vibration of 
sympathy, for he smiled and the smile Avas sin- 
gularly sweet and winning, revealing a glimpse 


Death’s Narrow Sea. 


149 


of his old-time handsome self, when he had won 
the Butterfly’s heart. 

In conversation the Colonel was ever a failure. 
Ilis ability in that art did not go much beyond 
a few stock expletives, eked out with significant 
shrugs and emphatic grunts. But now he tried 
to make talk, and lingered as though he had 
something to say and knew not how to begin. 

Hang it all,” he growled at last, what is 
there in this life anyhow ? What are we here 
for, I should like to know ? What’s the object 
of the whole, miserable procession ? It’s a devil 
of a grind for everybody, and we have to give it 
up at last, and go out of it, God only knows 
where. What do you think is at the end of it, 
Mrs. Doring ? ” 

“ O Colonel, I think and think, but I know 
nothing.” 

“Yes, that’s the dickens of it, nobody knows,” 
he sighed. “ But if there is a hell most of us will 
be well seasoned for it by tough times here. I 
feel about ripe myself. At least I am certain they 
can’t get up anything worse than this world any- 
where. Mighty little happiness here.” 

There was something inexpressibly pathetic in 
this ruined man’s mention of happiness. Like all 
others he had been in pursuit of it, yet his seek- 
ing had but led him farther astray. 

“ Should you like to live your life over again ? ” 
he asked with sudden animation. 


150 


An Index Finger. 


“ I have not the courage,” she answered. 

“ I don’t know that I have either,” he said, 
with a weary air. “ I don’t know that I want 
to ; yet all the morning I have seen, myself as I 
was when a child in my father’s house, and my 
grown-up life seems but a dream. If it were so, 
and I remembered the dream, I would not again 
travel the same road, I assure you. I recall one 
spring morning, particularly— a Sunday morning 
—when I sat with my mother on the shady old 
porch with vines running up the sides, and she 
sang this : 

‘ “ There is a land of pure delight, 

Where saints immortal reign. 

Infinite day excludes the night, 

And pleasures banish pain. 

“ * There everlasting spring abides 
And never-withering flowers. 

Death like a narrow sea divides 
That heavenly land from ours. ’ ” 

A good tenor voice had once been his, but the 
best of it had gone the irrevocable road, like 
many of his other endowments and possessions. 
Enough remained, however, to give a touching 
sweetness to the grand old words, and as he sang 
his face became softened, beautified, transfigured, 
all that was erring and evil dropping out of it. 
The years, too, fell away, and he was a little 
child again — nor had he ever been anything 
®lse — ^just a child, weak, wandering, blundering, 
stumbling often— just a child, brother to us all. 


Death’s Narrow Sea. 


151 


Do you think there is anything for us on the 
other side of death ? ” he asked, the childlike look 
still upon his face. 

“ I hope so.” 

“Well, I believe there is,” he said, with un- 
wonted decision. “ I have always believed so, in 
spite of my bad practice, though I don’t know 
what it is ; but I am not afraid though I’m no 
saint. It seems all right.” 

“Yes, whatever it is, it must be all right,” 
Cartice answered. “It could not be anything 
else. But I wish we knew something about it. 
I wish we knew.” 

“ It may not be long before I know. You see 
what I am — a shadow of what I used to be, a 
wreck in everything and nobody to blame but 
myself. I guess the end of the road can’t be 
very far ahead. After I make the lonely jour- 
ney, I’ll come back and tell you something about 
it if I can.” 

“ Ah, Colonel Layton, thousands, millions have 
started on that journey with the same promise 
upon their lips, but who has kept it ? ” 

“Yes, it is a stumper,” he said, reflectively, 
“ but in spite of it I have faith that perhaps I 
can. Mother and father are on the other side 
somewhere. This morning they seem very near 
to me — nearer than ever before since they went 
away. I feel that I might meet them at any 
turn.” 


152 


An Index Finger. 

With a sigh and a smile he lifted his hat in 
graceful adieu and went slowly down the stairs, 
softly singing, 

“ Death like £» narrow sea divides 
That heavenly land from ours.’^ 

Two hours later Cartice was sitting at her desk 
in the editorial office of the Register^ when a 
stranger entered. Speaking low, as even the 
rudest do when they bring dread news, he said : 

‘‘ Colonel Layton fell dead on the street a few 
minutes ago. He has been carried into Dr. 01- 
cott’s office, and the doctor wants you to come 
at once. He knows you are a close friend of 
Mrs. Layton, and I guess he wants you to tell 
her and help make arrangements.” 

Dazed and trembling, Mrs. Doring was about 
to start when Prescott entered, and he volun- 
teered to accompany her. 

They found everything calm and orderly. The 
doctor was noted for keeping an even mind under 
all circumstances, and had permitted no intrusion 
of the curious and idle. He opened the door to 
an inner room, and led them to a sofa on which 
the dead man lay awaiting the coroner. With 
professional coolness the doctor turned down the 
sheet, saying, “ He was already gone when they 
brought him in.” 

In very truth he had become a child again. 
The fair weak face wore a look of youth and 


Death’s Narrow Sea. 


153 


innocence. The light, shiny hair, scarcely rufl9^ed 
from its careful arrangement of the morning, had 
on it baby tints of sunshine, and under the blonde 
moustache lurked the remnant of the childishly 
sweet smile that lighted his face when Mrs. Dor- 
ing saw him go singing down the stairs two 
hours before. The placid form before her was 
his semblance, indeed, but it was not he. That 
mysterious fact Cartice realized in an instant. 
There were his clay garments, but all that was 
he was gone. 

The funeral took place two days later. Mrs. 
Doring could not be present, for she was unable 
to raise her head from the pillow. Thoughts of 
the great mystery which had just touched elbows 
with her haunted her all the time. The “ nar- 
row sea that divides the heavenly land from 
ours,” what was it like ? What shore touched it 
on the other side ? Was there a heavenly land 
or any land beyond that dark ocean? And 
where was Colonel Layton now ? 

No answer to these perplexing queries came. 
And yet, perhaps an answer alv^ays comes could 
we but read it. Perhaps it came to Mrs. Dor- 
ing, for as she lay there wondering about it, a 
calm came upon her, and in imagination she saw 
Colonel Layton as he stood at the top of the 
stairs on the day they talked together about this 
greatest of all problems, and heard him say, “ I 
am not afraid. It seems all right.” Far down 


154 


An Index Finger. 

within herself she heard the echo, ‘^all right! 
all right ! ” and then she saw again the Colonel’s 
childish smile, and he repeated assuringly, Yes, 
it’s all right.” 

Ohrissalyn went to live with a friend and de- 
termined to find a way to earn her bread. The 
end of one path through which she had sought 
happiness was reached and only sadness and dis- 
appointment were there. Now she must look for 
others, for the endless quest goes on, clear to the 
grave itself and possibly beyond. When she with 
the last scrap of her possessions was gone and 
her apartments left solitary, Cartice felt a sense 
of desolation greater than she had known since 
she and the Butterfly had been friends. Life is 
as inexorable as death ; its separations are often 
more cruel. 

In the office of the Register the final fate of 
man was a subject often under discussion. Pres- 
cott snorted in derision at any mention of a con- 
tinuance of life in a sphere invisible to us now. 
‘‘We die and turn to dust, like the worm,” he 
said. Cartice held to the hope of something 
more than we have here — a sequel to this life, or 
a continuation of it, but she could advance no 
basis for the hope which he considered tenable. 

Well-known figures in the state and commu- 
nity passed out of sight into the silence of the 
grave every now and then, and it was the Reg- 


Death’s Narrow Sea. 


155 


ister'^s custom to speak with unvarnished frank- 
ness about their lives. Without doubt this, in 
many instances, added to the terrors of death, 
for Prescott was capable of v^y rough surgery 
in his post-mortem analysis. He flouted the old 
injunction, ‘‘speak no ill of the dead,” saying 
that mere dying did not excuse a man’s mis- 
deeds, nor make an angel of him, and that they 
should reap an obituary harvest of whatever crop 
they had sown. Not even the time-honored 
“ regular subscriber ” or “ constant reader,” had 
immunity from this harsh ruling. He was will- 
ing to take the same medicine himself when his 
time came, and it should never be said of him 
that he was in the habit of plastering people all 
over with laudatory lies just because they had 
died. “O yes,” he would snarl, “lots of men 
serve the devil all their lives, and then expect 
newspapers to put plenty of heaven in the truck 
they print about them when they die. But the 
Register isn’t conducted that way. They shall 
get in it what they have earned, no more, no 
less.” Truly, many found, even without dying, 
that it was a terrible thing to fall into the too 
truthful hands of the Register^ editor. 


156 


An Index Finger. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THINGS NOT DREAMED OF IN EVERYDAY PHILOS- 
OPHY. 

“ Communication between the spirit world and the corporeal 
world is in the nature of things, and has in it nothing super- 
natural.*’ 

The body, after all, is only a portable, two-legged telephone 
through which the soul, or part of it, communicates with 
other souls which for purposes of education and evolution are 
temporarily imprisoned in these cumbrous and ingenious, but 
very inconvenient physical machines. — William T, Stead, 

CHEissALYisr had the usual difficulty of the 
untrained in finding employment. The search 
was long and disheartening and might never 
have had a happy ending but for a curious acci- 
dent, which was no doubt down in the books of 
destiny. 

She was going up a public stairway one day, 
when a man descending at a break-neck gait ran 
against her, throwing her down. Distressed at 
what he feared might have a serious ending, he 
picked her up, bewailing his awkwardness, and of- 
fering to do anything in his power to atone for 
it. 

She opened her eyes to consciousness just as he 
was saying, What can I do for her ? What 
can I do for her ? ” 


157 


Things Not Dreamed Of. 

“ Get me a chance to earn my bread, “ she 
gasped, with almost her first breath. 

“ I’ll do it at once,” he said. “ I’ll take you 
right up the stairs into my office and install you, 
out of gratitude that I didn’t kill you.” So it 
could be said in all truth that she “ fell into a 
good situation,” for that it proved to be. Her 
ignorance of the duties she was to perform was 
patiently borne with until it was overcome. 
Never was butterfly more painstaking and in- 
dustrious than she, and work proved a blessing to 
her, as it does to everybody whose heart is in it. 
Occupation gave her a stronger hold on life, for 
self-dependence is a wonderful invigorator. It 
gave her added dignity, too, leaving just enough of 
the butterfly instinct to give her exceeding grace. 

Seldom did she speak of her husband, save to 
Cartice, from whom she concealed nothing, for 
Mrs. Doring was always tolerant, helpful, re- 
ceptive, kind and sympathetic, never critical and 
condemnatory. Others beside the Butterfly un- 
derstood this, and went to her with what they 
needed to tell. The mind that is receptive, never 
meeting any honest communication with hedge- 
hog defiance or fool’s sneer, becomes a magnet 
which draws knowledge from the very fountain 
of light and life. Into it flow the secrets of the 
universe as well as of individuals. 

Speaking of her husband one day to Cartice, 
the Butterfly said, I never shed any tears be- 


158 


An Index Finger. 

cause lie died. It was the only road out of 
misery for him and for me ; but I did weep for 
the happiness we never had together, yet might 
have had.” 

One Sunday she came, but was silent and re- 
flective, unlike her usual self, for a time. At 
last she said : “ Cartice, dear, I want to tell you 

something that will certainly seem queer to you. 
I dare not speak of it to any one else, lest I be 
locked up as a lunatic. But you are always so 
kind and so sensible, you may be able to under- 
stand it. I don’t. When I think of it I feel 
afraid that I am a little off my base.’ 

“You can tell me anything, Chriss, you 
know that.” 

The Butterfly looked nervous and paled a 
little, but began : 

“ To-day I have been to the funeral of Jess 
Hanley, a schoolmate of mine. We were always 
the best of friends, though for some years we 
have seen comparatively little of each other, be- 
cause she has been tied down at home so closely 
on account of sickness. Her husband died of 
consumption two years ago. A year later their 
little boy went. Then Jess became ill, and for 
months she has been expecting to go any day al- 
most. Last week she sent for me and I went. 
She told me she knew her time was nearly up. 
She was quite cheerful over it, as she believed 
she would be with her husband and child again 


159 


Things Not Dreamed Of. 

after she had ‘ passed over,’ as she called it. She 
was a spiritualist, and thought that dying isn’t 
dying at ail. One thing she made me promise — 
a mere sick fancy I suppose — and that T^as that 
I should not fail to go to her funeral. 

‘^Well, I went of course. It was like most 
other respectable funerals. People looked sol- 
emn, there were flowers, and a preacher made 
the usual harrowing remarks, which set every- 
body weeping — everybody but me. I didn’t shed 
a tear, yet I loved J ess as well as any one there 
except her mother, I am sure. 

I didn’t cry because I was so dazed I couldn’t. 
That was the queer part of it. I was dazed, be- 
cause all the time the minister was speaking 
I saw Jess, her husband and little boy run- 
ning around the coffin, laughing, kissing each 
other and throwing flowers in all directions. 
They took the flowers from the mass on top of 
the coffin, yet there were never any fewer there, 
though they threw them around by handfuls. 

‘‘Once when the preacher said, ‘We shall see 
our sister no more until that great and dreadful 
day of the Lord, when all shall stand at the bar 
of judgment,’ Jess looked at me, laughed in a 
knowing way and threw a rose into my lap ; but 
when I tried to pick it up it wasn’t there. Now 
what do you think of all that ? Am I crazy, or 
what was it ? ” 

“ AVhat do you think it was, Chrissalyn ? ” 


160 


An Index Finger. 

don’t know, and don’t dare to think too 
much about it lest I get upset over it.” 

“ Did others see them, do you think ? ” 

“ No ; I am sure they did not, and that fright- 
ens me. If they were really there why didn’t 
the others see them? If they were not there 
Avhy should I see them, unless something has 
gone wrong in my head ? I am sure the others 
saw nothing, for I thought of that and watched 
them closely and could detect no astonishment 
in their faces.” 

‘‘How did the dead people whom you saw 
look, Chrissalyn ? ” 

“ Just like living people, clothes and all. Only 
I knew they were not living and had no busi- 
ness to be there, and couldn’t be there, and yet 
they were there.” 

“ Have you ever seen anything of the kind 
before ? ” 

“Yes, several times; but I always drove the 
recollection of it out of my mind as soon as 
possible, because it seemed uncanny and creepy 
— and I ended by persuading myself that I had 
imagined it all.” 

“ Did your friend Jess know you had seen such 
things ? ” 

“ Come to think of it, she did. Once a good 
while ago she told me about some queer things 
of that kind she had seen. That’s the reason she 
was a spiritualist. Then I told her what I had 


161 


Things Not Dreamed Of. 

seen.” (Here the Butterfly’s face lighted up). 
“ Now that may be the reason she made me prom- 
ise to be sure and go to her funeral. Perhaps 
she intended to make herself visible to me if she 
could. At least that view of it makes me feel 
easier. I prefer to believe I saw ghosts rather 
than to think my brain is going bad. It has 
been a long time since I saw anything of the 
kind. Each time I hope will be the last. But 
what do you thinlv of it, Cartice? You believe I 
saw those dead people, don’t you ? ” 

“ I think you saw just what you say you did ; 
but I can’t explain it.” 

Mrs. Doring had always clung to the belief 
that the universe held many mysteries beyond 
her ken; that marvelous things, hidden from 
common vision, were destined to some day stand 
revealed, and no man knew the manner in which 
they might make themselves known. She had 
had some experience with professional clairvoy- 
ants which had been disenchanting. For the 
most part they had been clammy, illiterate, un- 
scrupulous, pitiful types of humanity, ready to 
violate truth and the English language without 
hesitation or remorse. Now she looked at the 
Butterfly with an interest that almost amounted 
to awe. Could it be that the gift of seeing the 
hidden and unknown belonged to this bright, 
winged being, who loved the world and the 
things of the world only ? 


162 


An Index Finger. 

At last she said : Chrissalyn, you have heard 
of the faculty of clairvoyance, have you not ? ” 
Yes, of course.” 

“ May it not be that you are a clairvoyant, and 
saw your dead friends clairvoyantly ? ” 

The Butterfly lifted her hands in horror. ‘‘ O 
Cartice, how can you suggest such a thing ? la 
clairvoyant ? It would be too dreadful. I 
wouldn’t have a hint of such a horrid thing get 
out on me for the world. Why, clairvoyants are 
hideous creatures, ugly, old, frowsy, untruthful, 
and advertise to tell you all sorts of things for a 
dollar.” 

But, my own Butterfly, you are not old and 
ugly and all the rest of it, neither are all clair- 
voyants. History contains the names of some 
very eminent ones. What a wonderful and 
enviable gift clairvoyance must be. How I wish 
I had it. And if it be true that you are possessed 
of it, think what it brings to you — light, light 
from heaven itself — the most glorious light in 
the universe — proof that the dead have never 
died.” 

Her friend’s enthusiasm ensnared the Butter- 
fly’s vanity at once, so that she pricked up her 
ears and gave heed. Whatever Cartice said had 
weight with her. It gratified her, in spite of her 
prejudices, to have a faculty unattainable to 
ordinary persons. All this darted through her 
head and settled down into acceptance. 


163 


Things Not Dreamed Of. 

“Well, I don’t mind if it is clairvoyance, only 
don’t tell anybody.” 

“ It’s not a thing to be talked about with those 
who don’t understand or respect it. It’s too 
precious. Would I could see such sights. Then 
I could sing light-hearted tunes and walk on 
bravely, be my pack never so heavy. Don’t fail 
to tell me if you see anything more.” 

Chrissalyn did see something more of the same 
character very soon, and made haste to describe 
it to her friend. 

She had gone to a bank to attend to some 
business which required more explanation than 
was convenient to make through the cashier’s 
window, so she was invited to take a seat in the 
office of the president, with whom she had some 
acquaintance. 

While she sat there his son entered, bearing 
strong evidence of having tarried too long at the 
wine. His reputation as altogether too jolly a 
dog was well known. His father sent him off as 
speedily as possible, and then said to Chrissalyn 
in a burst of distracted confidence, such as we all 
give to somebody at times when the load grows 
too heavy, “ My boy is going to ruin in spite of 
all I can do. I have borne with him till I am 
out of patience, yet my forbearance is wasted. I 
am tempted to cast him off entirely, to throw 
him on his own resources and see how that will 
work. Maybe it will bring him to reason, since 


164 An Index Finger. 

no amount of kind treatment does him any 
good.” 

On the instant Mrs. Layton saw a woman 
stand behind the banker. Whence she came or 
how she knew not, but there she was, and she 
spoke — spoke in an earnest, anxious voice, with an 
entreating gesture : “ Tell him not to do that. 

Beg him not to do it. Say that I implore him 
not to do it.” 

Under the impulse of the request, before she 
had time to think what she was doing, the But- 
terfly told the banker what she had just seen and 
heard. 

He was a big, commonplace, worldly man, 
whose head was never heated with super-mun- 
dane problems, yet he whitened as he heard 
this strange story. 

What was the woman like ? ” he asked. 

‘‘ She was young and plainly dressed in a calico 
gown of an old-time mode, and she looked aston- 
ishingly like your son.” 

The face of the banker whitened more and 
more and his eyes became glassy and fear- 
struck. 

That describes my flrst wife, Rob’s mother,” he 
said, “ yet you did not know — no one here does — 
that he is not the child of my present wife. I 
was poor while she lived, so poor that she never 
had anything better than calico to wear.” 

By that time Chrissalyn began to have a sheep- 


165 


Things Not Dreamed Of. 

ish feeling about what she had done, and wished 
she were well out of it. A force that was resist- 
less had impelled her to speak, but now that the 
tale was told, the impulsion gone and she became 
master of herself again, her first thought was that 
she had let out the secret of her ability to see 
things not within the range of common vision. 
So she attempted to make light of it, lest the 
banker go about telling it as a queer thing, and 
then the detested name of clairvoyant would be 
fastened on her in spite of everything. 

“ I dare say it’s all nonsense, and I hope you 
won’t think of it again,” which was as near as 
she could delicately come to saying, “ I hope you 
will not speak of it.” 

The stout banker mopped a cold perspiration 
from his face, with a good deal of nervousness. 
He was tolerably shaken up, and was making a 
wild effort to regain his equilibrium. Though 
not a man to go very deep into anything outside 
of finances, he was neither dogmatic nor unteach- 
able. He knew what he didn’t know, which is a 
rare bit of wisdom, and in that territory were all 
things beyond the commonplace. 

Anyhow, whatever it was, Mrs. Layton, I’m 
obliged to you for telling me — more obliged than 
I can express,” he said, with unaffected earnest- 
ness — “ and I will do as she wants me to. I will 
not turn Hob out.” 

« I’m glad of that,” said his visitor, whose in- 


166 


An Index Finger. 

stincts were always kind. It could hardly do 
him any good.” 

The springs of the banker’s emotions had been 
touched, and for a moment he looked like a big 
boy about to cry like a little boy. That’s what 
he saw he must do, or pour himself out in unin- 
vited and prodigal confidence, and that’s what he 
did. 

Thus it was that the banker’s skeletons held 
high carnival that afternoon in their owner’s 
business ofiice. The reminder of the wife of his 
youth, the companion of his poverty, pressed the 
closet door unceremoniously open. The unhappy 
owner of the unique outfit took a full breath and 
unreservedly told how miserable he was, and that 
the only happiness he ever had was during the 
life of his first wife, 

‘ ‘ When there was scarce bread to eat 
And the wolf was at the door.’^ 

Now, he had money, and with it a wife who 
wore purple and fine linen, and loved nobody but 
herself. He spoke of his loneliness, and told what 
a poor, mean, paltry sham his life was, and how 
at times he had wondered if his dead wife could 
see and understand. He kept on till the closet of 
skeletons had been pretty well swept and aired, 
and they had stretched their legs in a fine dance 
after long suppression — kept on until the Butter- 
fly held him and his wretchedness, so to speak, in 


167 


Things Not Dreamed Of. 

the hollow of her hand. When she went forth 
it was with a sure conviction that he would say 
nothing about her clairvoyant experiences. He 
would have enough repenting to do about the 
break-out of the skeletons to keep him busy. 


168 


An Index Finger. 


CHAPTER X. 

“ye shall not undeestand.” 

Whatever happens to anybody it will be turned to beautiful 
results, 

And nothing can happen more beautiful than death. 

— Walt Whitman, 

Two years had passed since Colonel Layton 
died. Kenewed health and beauty had come to 
the Butterfly, who still contentedly earned and 
ate her own bread. Self-dependence has many 
rewards for its faithful disciples, not least among 
them being the conscious dignity that belongs to 
usefulness, and expresses itself in the greater ease 
and calmer assurance of bearing. Being a factor 
instead of a cipher gives a woman new value in 
her own eyes, as well as in the eyes of others. 

If Chrissalyn could see into the world to fol- 
low this, Cartice wondered why she had had no 
glimpse of her husband. She had not, she said, 
and didn’t want to. She hoped she never would 
see any one who had been near to her — it would 
be too terrible. She insisted on keeping all 
knowledge of her queer experiences from Pres- 
cott. His sniffs and sneers of ridicule would be 
too much for her, nor did Cartice feel equal to 
them either. According to Phillips Brooks there 


“Ye Shall Not Understand.” 


169 


are two kinds of cowardice, that of the conserva- 
tive, and that of the radical, both of them fatal 
to freedom of thought. The former is afraid of 
being called an innovator, the latter fears to be 
thought conservative. One pliantly conforms to 
established methods; the other strikes defiance 
of them. Neither of them are free. 

Perhaps Prescott was of the second. Perhaps 
he fought what he called superstition lest he be 
forced to believe in spite of himself. At any 
rate his two friends, perhaps the loyalest he had, 
were not bold enough to take him into their 
confidence. The intolerant always pay this pen- 
alty. They shut out confidence ; they make peo- 
ple afraid of them; they keep light and good 
away from them, and drive angels themselves 
from their gates. 

Cartice had a notion that the Butterfly and Pres- 
cott loved each other. Being something of which 
the gods themselves must approve, she could not 
understand the Butterfly’s reticence on the sub- 
ject, for the winged creature said not a word in 
regard to it. In spite of his aggressive character 
and some other deplorable defects, Prescott was 
a man to be proud of. 

The three were much together. Prescott was 
the Butterfly’s tireless escort everywhere, and 
they were usually anxious to have Cartice with 
them, and often they came together to pass a few 
hours with her in the evening, as she was in- 


170 


An Index Finger. 

variably alone, Doring finding places more to bis 
taste than the one he called home. Some of 
Prescott’s friends said more than once that he 
was growing gentler and kinder, both on paper 
and off. 

One evening the three friends were together in 
Cartice’s apartment. Prescott’s face was radiant, 
with a light never seen there before. It refined 
and softened his rugged features, making his 
countenance sweet and sunny. 

“ He has spoken,” thought Cartice, and this 
is the light of love that has naught to fear.” 

Children,” he said, after a time, with an un- 
usual sweetness and confidence that became him 
well, dear children, I am going to have happi- 
ness.” 

Both looked at him in affectionate inquiry. 

“ What kind of happiness ? ” asked the Butter- 
fiy, in a low voice, for there was that in his face 
which made them feel they were upon holy ground. 

“ I don’t know ! I don’t know ! That’s the 
inexplicable part of it. Yet it seems so near I 
can almost reach out my hands and grasp it. 
This feeling has been upon me all day, and 
grows stronger every moment. I never ex- 
perienced anything like it before. I don’t know 
why or whence it comes, nor can I explain it 
well ; but I feel it. Yes, I am very near to 
something good — near to happiness at last.” 

His voice sank low, and its tones had a thrill- 


‘‘Ye Shall Not Understand.’’ 


171 


ing sweetness, a holy joy. His companions lis- 
tened in silence, under a spell, their astonishment 
too vast for words. This was strange talk to 
come from him. 

As in reverie he went on, after a pause, “ All 
my life I have wondered how it would seem to 
be happy — really happy — if only for one hour. 
Misery I know well ; but happiness and I have 
never met. Now, it is so near that I am already 
in its sunshine.” And he smiled, with the wonder- 
ful light on his face, and the smile was strangely 
sweet and beautiful. 

The Butterfly shook herself out of the serious- 
ness that was upon her, and said : 

“You are going to have money — plenty of 
money — all unexpected as it comes in stories, and 
then — then you must give a big supper and Car- 
tice and I will wear our prettiest gowns and be 
queens of the feast.” 

He looked at her and smiled again, but did not 
even hear her chatter, for his soul was revelling 
in soundless melody. The exaltation was still 
on his face when he and Chriss bade Cartice 
good-night. 

It was ten o’clock next day when Mrs. Boring 
reached the Register office. The entrance was 
full of men, with frightened faces, one of whom 
motioned to her to stop. Obeying, she stood in 
her tracks, chilled with a sense of disaster, until 
he reached her. 


172 


An Index Finger. 

“ You must not come in,” he said. There has 
been an accident at the elevator, and — Prescott 
is dead.” 

In silence she turned away. “ And this was 
the happiness he felt so near to him — this ? ” she 
gasped. “Yes; it was so near, yet he did not 
understand, and we did not understand. And it 
was this ! It was this ! ” 

Prescott and death were irreconcilable. He 
was typical of life, force and action. Who could 
think of him as out of the conflict, as voiceless 
and silent ? How could they ever learn to speak 
of him as one who was but is not ? 

“ Saw you nothing, Chrissalyn — nothing that 
portended this ? ” Cartice asked. 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Yet we had a sign, and were too blind to see 
it. His glorifled face last night, and his strange 
feeling that happiness was near to him — these 
were signs, though we understood them not.” 

From the first a sense of the unreality of what 
had occurred came to Mrs. Doring and never left 
her. She followed the sable carriage of the dead 
to the cemetery, and returned to find his chair 
vacant, his pen idle, his presence gone forever,, 
yet it was not like reality, — none of it. She shed 
no tears, nor was she sad. After the first start- 
led moment she was at peace, though she knew 
not why. 

Later she understood, as will all of us after a 


‘‘Ye Shall Not Understand.” 


173 


little time. Now we weep and moan over sorrow, 
questioning it all, resenting it all ; but a day is 
coming when we shall see and know and under- 
stand, and in that day we shall re-name many 
things, having until then miscalled them. 

Now another serious event confronted Mrs. 
Doring. She had done her best to save her 
husband from himself but could not. Now 
she saw clearly at last, after much striving to 
bring compatibility out of incompatibility, that 
their union was a sham, a pretence, a lie, which 
if persisted in could only bring destruction to 
both of them. The conviction came to her that 
it must end. 

Few experiences are bitterer or sadder for a 
sensitive, proud, high-spirited woman, than to 
face a domestic calamity like this. To see the 
love upon which she had founded her dearest 
hopes turn to ashes ; to have what she once 
thought happiness become a burden so intoler- 
able that it must be cast down, acknowledging 
disappointment, defeat and humilation before the 
world, is, indeed, a bitter cup. 

The coarse, the malicious, the undeveloped 
have sneers, jeers and taunts for this order of 
sufferer ; but the enlightened, the truly moral 
bow before her reverently, not only because she 
has suffered, but because she stands for a great 
principle. 


174 An Index Finger. 

That the separation must be legal as well as 
actual, she saw would be best for both. Though 
the laws of their state were as humane as most 
others, still they had not evolved beyond the point, 
where in order to secure freedom from irksome 
marital bonds one of the parties must make a 
damaging charge against the other. 

In talking it over with her husband she said, 
“We can arrange that as decently as the law 
will permit. If I make the application, I shall 
put it on the most inoffensive ground possible. 
If that is not agreeable to you, I will leave you 
and you can charge me with desertion.’’ 

Doring determined to do at once what he had 
long been arranging to do slyly, which was to go 
away himself, and as a Parthian arrow an- 
nounced that he had intended to do so for some- 
time, but not alone. 

It was a curious ending of the most delicate 
and important relation in life. Cartice gathered 
his effects together, packing everything with 
careful hands. When he went she watched him 
out of sight, and out of her life. Late into the 
night she still sat at the window, with a white 
face and eyes that stared into the darkness yet 
saw only the scenes of the past. 

Wlien Louis Doring boarded the train that 
evening he knew that within awaited him the 
sharer of his future fortunes. 

His story can soon be told. It was the natural 


“Ye Shall Not Understand.” 


175 


outcome of his weak, selfish, stubborn and vain 
character. A few months later, deserted by the 
companion he had taken with him, penniless and 
alone in a southern city, he fell a victim to a 
malignant fever and passed out of life. 

Cartice saw a brief mention of his death in a 
daily newspaper of the city in which it occurred. 
Accompanied by the faithful Butterfly she went at 
once, arriving there in time to put his mortal 
part out of sight with the decency custom re- 
quires. 

These two loving hearts, both bruised from sad 
experiences, sat together late that night, talking 
of the curious events we call life and death. 
What they knew of one made it almost as ter- 
rible as the other. 

“ Ah, Butterfly, dear,” said Cartice, “ I envy 
the women who have lost husbands worth la- 
menting. Such tears would be sweet, not bitter.” 

“ You call me a seeress, sometimes,” said Chris- 
salyn, “ and perhaps I am, for I have been look- 
ing off into the future — a future that is very far 
away, indeed — and I see you, and you are happy. 
At least I read it so, for there is light all about 
you, and your face is like a picture of joy, it is so 
bright. And you are more beautiful than the 
sun, of whose radiance your clothes are made. 
But I am not with you, and it is, oh ! so far away 
— so far that it looks to be even on the other side 
of death though that is a queer way to put it. 


176 


An Index Finger. 

Yes, you will be great and renowned some day 
as well as happy ; but the road there is so long 
— I don’t understand it — as long as several lives 
put together, I should say.” 

“ And you, child of the far-away eyes, see you 
naught for yourself ? ” 

“ No ; I never do ; but I have a firm belief that 
I am yet to have satin couches and plenty of time 
to rest on them.” 

Splendor be it observed, was her deal of bliss, 
which was natural, she being a butterfiy. 

That night while her friend slept, Mrs. Doring 
sat by the open window thinking of the cold, still 
form she had seen put out of sight that day, and 
wondering with a chill sense of awe where now 
was the soul that had been represented by it. 
The moonlight whitened everything, and added 
its electric beauty and pale sadness to the lone- 
liness of the night. She recalled other nights 
when that form had pulsated near her, and yet 
her spirit had been as lonely as now. 

What did it all mean, the loving and the suffer- 
ing, the dreaming and the awakening, the meet- 
ing and the parting? The road together had 
been long and hard, yet here was the end — the 
same end to which all roads lead — but what was 
the purpose of it all ? 

The problem of life ; what can it be but the 
development of the individual, the unfolding of 
the soul, that marvelous, persistent, god-like thing 


“Ye Shall Not Understand.’^ 


177 


of whose unlimited possibilities we are but be- 
ginning to dream ? And all that we do and have 
done to us, enjoy and suffer, think and dream, 
hope and aspire, make to that end, and are nec- 
essary and therefore good. 

Memories came to her from a remote past, that 
antedated her birth — or so it seemed, for their 
origin was not within her earthly experi- 
ences. Yet surely they were memories, for one 
and all met with recognition. Faces she had 
loved came and smiled their sympathy and fond- 
ness. Familiar voices spoke to her — voices whose 
heavenly sweetness mortal ear hath not heard. 
Snatches of songs, celestial in their thrilling 
melody, floated by. Scenes restful and beautiful 
unrolled themselves for a moment and were gone. 
But it was the inner eyes which saw and the 
inner ears that heard. 

Yes, she knew them all, for they were her 
people, her very own people, of whom she was 
always dreaming, and for whom she was always 
searching. They had come to comfort her. See, 
all smiled, not one wept, and their words and 
songs were joyous. 

“ My own people ! My dear people, I shall yet 
find you, — I am finding you,” she said, glancing 
at the Butterfly’s pretty face, with its crown of 
sunshiny hair on the pillow, and thinking of 
Prescott, with his head like carven granite and 
eyes of fire ; and others, with some of whom she 


178 


An Index Finger. 

had clasped hands but once, yet knew them as 
her own. 

But what of the new-made narrow mound in 
the cemetery ? It presented itself at the end of 
every life, mutely asking an explanation of its 
existence. This was the wall against which the 
race of man has ever beaten the wings of inquiry. 
There it alwaiys stands, unresponsive and forbid- 
ding, the grim silence, like the shores that shut 
in the sea, saying, “ Thus far shalt thou come and 
no farther.” 

Yet above and beyond the awe and wonder 
that filled her soul, was that curious sense of the 
unreality of death which had come when Prescott 
went away and still remained. 


A Little Board Bridges the Great Gulf. 179 


CHAPTER XL 

A LITTLE BOAED BEIDGES THE GEEAT GULF. 

Even here the soul of man is a member of the immaterial 
world; present and future, life and death, make one continuous 
whole in the order of spiritual nature . — Kant 

Cartice Doriistg was one of those blessed 
beings who intermeddle not with the affairs of 
another. She asked no questions and was free 
from the vulgar vice of curiosity. She listened 
with sympathetic interest to all confidences that 
came to her, but solicited none. This made her 
a charming and lovable friend. Speaking once 
of the pernicious habit some well-meaning but 
ill-taught persons have of asking where you were 
born, if your parents are living, what religion 
you adhere to and the thousand other catechet- 
ical shots which compose their list of topics of 
conversation, she said : 

“ There may be a reason why the simplest and 
apparently most inoffensive question may give 
pain, so I never ask any. I have no wish to, for 
I have no curiosity. When I make a new ac- 
quaintance I am not concerned with the locality 
of his birth, the residence of his parents, or any 
part of his personal history. What he 'is individ- 
ually, not the accidents of his life, interests me. 


180 


An Index Finger. 

and that reveals itself as I become acquainted 
with him, without any probing on my part. 
Neither do I wish to bore into the sacred recesses 
of a friend’s heart. What she tells me I shall 
listen to lovingly ; what she does not tell me I 
do not even wish to know.” 

Hence it was that when the Butterfly fell into 
a meditative mood one evening when they were 
together, Cartice did not disturb her. By and 
by Chrissalyn said : 

“ I dreamed of Prescott last night. At least I 
suppose it was a dream, though it seemed ex- 
tremely real. I was walking on the street and 
met him, and he held in his hand that queer lit- 
tle heart-shaped toy somebody sent you once — a 
thing with a French name that I don’t recall 
now, but you said it meant ‘ little board.’ — It has 
three legs, and one of them is a pencil.” 

“ A planchette,” suggested Mrs. Doring. 

“Yes; that’s it. Well, Prescott held that up 
before me and said, ‘ Try it, Butterfly ! Try 
it!”’ 

Cartice’s eyes widened with interest. 

“You remember we did try to write with it 
once long ago,” said the Butterfly, “ but it only 
wrote foolishness, so we flung it aside and never 
tried again. I have been thinking about it all 
day, and should like to try it again, for I can’t 
get Prescott’s face, as I saw it last night, out of 
my mind.” 


A Little Board Bridges the Great Gulf. 181 

The planchette was brought forth, and its his- 
tory retold. The donor was a man from whom 
Death had taken every member of his family. 
For years the desire of his heart had been to 
know if the dead are dead, or if they still live 
though unseen of men. After he went to an- 
other city, he wrote Mrs. Doring that he had re- 
ceived some startling revelations through Plan- 
chette, and sent her one, that she might experi- 
ment for herself. Having some ability with the 
brush and palette, he had painted an allegory on 
the under side of the tiny walnut board. Psyche 
in the celestial robes was passing upward out of 
sight. Cupid in fashionable modern attire, had 
thrown aside his bow and arrows, and held his 
right hand on a Planchette, upon which he con- 
centrated all his attention, saying to it : 

‘^Tell me hopeful messages 
To beguile earth’s sorrow ; 

But of evil things, Oh ! keep 
Silence till to-morrow. 

Then, perchance, I’ll he asleep.” 

“A pretty thought,” said Cartice, displaying 
the picture, and reading the text aloud. “ Love 
is always anxious to know the fate of the soul. 
He hopes, but seeks for something to keep hope 
alive. Benson wrote me extraordinary things 
about Planchette, but I tried it several times and 
got nothing.” 

“ But I got something when I tried,” said Mrs. 


182 


An Index Finger. 

Layton, with an air of interest. To be sure it 
was rank nonsense, but it was something, and I 
didn’t do it myself, whatever it was.” 

‘‘No; you said it was the work of the devil, 
and flung the planchette aside in disgust. What 
a convenience the devil is, anyway ! How could 
the world get on without him ? Everything the 
veriest dunce doesn’t understand is laid at his 
door. If he had never been invented, who would 
shoulder all the mysteries ? Poor devil ! With- 
out being to blame he has been a terriflc stum- 
bling-block to the enlightenment of mankind. 
Wherever a persevering and heroic mind clipped 
out a crevice in the wall of ignorance, some dense- 
minded being was on hand to seize the devil and 
put him into it, to obscure whatever light might 
Alter through. And so, though innocent him- 
self, he has kept mankind in darkness through the 
centuries.” 

However, devil or no devil, they covered a 
table with a big sheet of white paper, of the kind 
used by the Register^ and put Planchette upon it. 
The Butterfly put her tiny hand thereon, and 
they awaited its pleasure. As they were ignorant 
of the particular methods of its operation, they 
could but grope tentatively till they found the 
true way, just as the human race has groped up- 
ward through countless vain experiments and in- 
numerable grievous blunders into such light as it 
now enjoys. 


A Little Board Bridges the Great Gulf. 183 

The occasion was in no way tinged with 
solemnity. They built no hopes on its outcome, 
nor gave it serious thought. It was the Butter- 
fly’s inspiration, born of her dream. So little im- 
portance did they attach to it, that they fell to 
chatting of other things at once, leaving Blan- 
chette to its own devices, Mrs. Layton’s hand still 
resting on it, however. 

Suddenly their chatter ceased. Blanchette be- 
gan to move across the paper, not aimlessly, as 
they expected, but deliberately and precisely, 
with intelligence and force. As suddenly as it 
had begun it stopped. They lifted it up and 
looked at its trail, and there was a word plainly 
and evenly written — the word “ Gaily.” 

“ More of its nonsense, just as I feared,” sighed 
the Butterfly, in disgust. 

“Well, try it again, dear,” pleaded her friend. 
“ It’s worth studying, even if it does write non- 
sense. It’s extraordinary that it writes at all.” 

With polite alacrity it wrote again with more 
ease and speed than before: “Do you not re- 
member Gaily — Gaily, the Troubadour ? ” 

This had no meaning for the Butterfly, and 
she was about to express her displeasure, when 
she glanced at her friend. Cartice was leaning 
far back in the chair, her face white and drawn, 
her mouth slightly open, her eyes startled and 
staring, and her breath coming in gasps. 

“O Cartice, dearest! Don't look like that! 


184 


An Index Finger. 

Don’t!” Chrissaljn cried in a terrified voice, 
jumping up and seizing her friend in her arms, 
alternately shaking and embracing her. “ What 
is it? What do you see? What has hap- 
pened ? ” 

Mrs. Doring tried to speak, but her mouth was 
parched and dry, her tongue leaden. She could 
only point with her finger at the writing. 

‘‘ Yes, yes ; but it’s only foolishness — a line out 
of one of Moore’s old songs. Don’t be fright- 
ened at the silly thing. It must have come from 
my mind somehow, though I wasn’t thinking of 
it.” 

It means everything to me,” Cartice gasped 
at last. I understand it. Try again, dear. Try 
again. I will explain presently.” 

Eather rebelliously Chrissalyn straightened 
Planchette and put her tiny hand again upon it, 
growling ; “ I feel more like smashing the mis- 
chievous thing than humoring it, since it gave 
you such a fright.” 

It was not fright, dear. It was astonishment, 
awe, wonder — many emotions blended, but fear 
was not among them.” 

Several minutes passed but Planchette moved 
not. The operator’s patience would have been 
exhausted, had not her friend kept her faithful to 
the work with cheering speeches. Presently the 
weird little instrument began to walk off again, 
leaving this line in big, bold letters : 


A Little Board Bridges the Great Gulf. 185 

Gaily ^ the Troubadour^ offers his love once 
more to the tall^ young pine.'^^ 

Cartice read it aloud, then threw up her hands 
and burst into weeping — a weeping that was 
half-laughing, an ebullition of pent-up emotion 
like that which comes at the fortunate ending of 
a long strain of anxiety. 

‘‘ He lives ! He lives ! ” she cried, in passion- 
ate joy. ‘‘ All live — all, all who have gone out 
of our sight into the silence. Hot one is dead. 
Hot one has ever died. The greatest of questions 
is answered.” 

Picking up Planchette she touched her lips to 
it reverently. Then putting her arms around 
her dazed friend, she kissed her again and again, 
saying : 

“ Chrissalyn, dear Chrissalyn, you have always 
been a blessing and a comfort to me ; but now 
you have opened the whole universe to me ; you 
have given me light — the brightest light that 
can come to any one. That scrawling line tells 
me more than any volume ever printed could. 
It is from an old-time friend, who died soon after 
I last saw him, one who loved me well. His 
name was Westfield, but because of his fondness 
for quoting from Moore in political speeches, and 
what the slang of newspaper offices calls ‘ fine 
writing,’ his chums dubbed him, ‘Gaily, the 
Troubadour,’ and by this affectionate nickname 
one of his old comrades frequently addressed him 


186 


An Index Finger. 

in my presence. And he named me a tall young 
pine. You knew none of this, for I am sure I 
never told you about him. Therefore it cannot 
have been taken from your mind, neither can it 
have been drawn from mine, for I never thought 
of him. If I had any one in mind, it was Pres- 
cott, because you had dreamed of Prescott in 
connection with Planchette, and because I have 
wondered so much about him since he went away 
— wondered in what part of the universe his 
dauntless spirit has found action, or if he is at 
all. Yet I scarcely dared hope even for him, 
for there was the possibility that death was the 
end of everything. I had no proof to the con- 
trary.” 

The Butterfly was a trifle dazed by the emo- 
tion of her friend, who was usually so self-pos- 
sessed. Even by the light of her explanation she 
could scarcely take it in. The subject of death, 
no matter how treated, was repugnant to her. 
Even proof that death was not death had but 
little interest for her. Of course there was some- 
thing afterward. Everybody knew that. Wasn’t 
it all set down in the books somewhere, straight 
enough ? But what was the use of dwelling on 
a subject that had so many unpleasant features 
in it ? Or why delve after the facts in regard to 
it ? That was her manner of dealing with this 
mighty question. What attracted her was life — 
yes, life, poor, cramped, hard and ugly as some 


A Little Board Bridges the Great Gulf. 187 

of it had been for her, still she loved it, found 
joy in it, craved it and its material pleasures and 
never wanted to be reminded that it had an end. 
A new gown could arouse her enthusiasm, and a 
flashing jewel give her supreme pleasure; but 
death, ugh ! who wanted to talk of so gruesome 
an event ? Dead people lived somewhere, as a 
matter of course, but wasn’t it best to let them 
alone in their own place wherever it is, and have 
nothing to do with them ? 

This is a curious attitude of mind toward a 
subject of more importance to us than any other, 
yet thousands of presumably intelligent people 
think the same. They want the dead, treated 
like dangerous criminals, although their nearest 
and dearest may be of them. They shut them 
away with relentless cruelty, doing their best to 
put them out of their very thoughts. In this 
Avay they slay them more effectually than Death 
himself has slain them. Eesistlessly they move 
on to the same end themselves, yet zealously re- 
fuse to learn aught of what that end may be. 
Astonishing mental darkness and indolence, but 
alas ! not uncommon. 

It was some time before Cartice recovered 
self-possession and induced her friend to go on 
with the experiment. But the chain was broken, 
Blanchette refused to move again. 

Still, Mrs. Doring had enough to dwell upon. 
Late into the night she lay awake, thinking of 


188 


An Index Finger. 

it, marveling at it and rejoicing in the new light 
that had come to her. True, it was a little thing, 
perhaps, or might appear so to those who are ever 
ready to make havoc of whatever differs from the 
usual and accepted, but its possibilities might be 
limitless, and already it had expanded her world 
into infinity. 

Whatever the intelligence that acted through 
Planchette might be, it was subject to a law in 
its manifestations, of which as yet she knew next 
to nothing. For more light thereon she must 
study by experiment. Simple as this law ap- 
peared to be in its operations, it was mighty 
in its results, since it annihilated space and de- 
stroyed death, the last and greatest enemy whose 
destruction has long been foretold. But are not 
all nature’s laws astonishingly simple, when un- 
derstood? So simple that the searcher after 
knowledge, filled with delusion that it was afar 
off on inaccessible heights, for ages passed them 
by, trod them under foot, touched them at every 
turn, yet found them not. 

A few evenings later the two friends were 
ready to begin the fascinating work of experi- 
menting with Planchette, the Butterfly’s tiny 
hand resting on its heart-shaped back, inviting 
it to action. Was ever priestess of the occult 
so emphatically a creature of worldly attributes 
as she ? Her pretty face, soft, fair hair, slight, 
graceful figure modishly attired, and gentle bear- 


A Little Board Bridges the Great Gulf. 189 

ing conveyed no suggestion of power to reveal hid- 
den mysteries. 

In silence they waited a little while, Blanchette 
as still as could be. Then, unexpectedly it whirled 
away at a startling pace, with a force well-nigh 
resistless. When it reached the end of the paper, 
which completely covered the table, they picked 
it up and carried it back to the place of begin- 
ning, the hand of the pretty priestess was re- 
placed, and it went on at tearing speed, until its 
message was finished. Then they looked and 
saw this in big, firm chirography : 

Love laughs at Death as well as at locksmiths 
— PaganP 

Cartice read it aloud with a whitening face 
and staring eyes. 

“ Prescott ! ” she whispered, with a husky voice, 
motioning to Chrissalyn to put her hand again 
on Blanchette. Pagan was a name she had given 
him and which he delighted in, though unknown 
to any but her. The little board whirled away 
again with the same determined swing. Its very 
movements were characteristic of him, who had 
ever a trace of savageness and fierceness in all 
he did and much that he said. These were its 
words : 

‘‘ Butterfly^ tell her what I told you as we went 
home that last night, 

IS'ow Chrissalyn began to tremble and tears 
gushed from her shining eyes. The conviction 


190 


An Index Finger. 


that it was Prescott who thus silently spoke to 
them came to her with overwhelming force. 

“ Cartice, it is Prescott, I am sure. He loved 
you with all his heart, and you know how intense 
that heart was in everything. I saw it from the 
very day I introduced him to you at the market 
house, when we went to hear Gabriel Norris 
preach. He adored you, but never spoke of it, 
and you were too blind and had too little vanity 
to see it. But that last night before his death, 
when he and I were walking home together after 
we had spent the evening with you, he told me 
about it. You remember he spoke of having a 
presentiment that happiness was near him, and 
he looked almost transfigured that night. He 
said he believed that somehow you would soon 
be free from your husband, and then he would 
take you whether or no. He swore to that. But 
the next morning he was dead. That’s what he 
wants me to tell — that’s what he means when he 
says ‘Love laughs at death as well as at lock- 
smiths.’ He is the same — just the same kind, 
fierce old savage. He loves you still.” 

“Why, Butterfly, this is astonishing,” said 
Cartice, in amazement. “ I thought you and he 
loved each other, and that you were made for 
each other.” 

“/loved him; but he loved you, not me.” 

This touched Mrs. Boring beyond her power 
to express. She tried to speak, but could say 


A Little Board Bridges the Great Gulf. 191 

nothing, for a great lump, like a live coal, had 
closed her throat. 

“I was never jealous,” continued Chrissalyn, 
“no, never; but a trifle melancholy at times, 
wishing he loved me instead of you, because I 
saw that you didn’t love him, only as a good 
comrade, and didn’t know that he loved you. If 
you had loved him I don’t think I should have 
been jealous, because I love you so much.” 

Both pairs of eyes were moist now. Cartice 
rearranged Blanchette, and after kissing her 
friend’s dainty hand placed it thereon again. 

“Yes; it is true, I love you, Cartice, and did 
from the beginning,” wrote the little board, with 
the same impetuous dash. 

“I thank you for telling me,” said Cartice, 
humbly. “ But how are we to be sure that you 
are Prescott. Give us a proof if you can, though 
it be only to write your name in the old way.” 

“ Gordon Prescott,” was instantly and rapidly 
written in the firm, sharp-pointed handwriting 
characteristic of the man — a good fac-simile of 
the original signature, even without making 
allowance for the clumsiness of the implement. 
Then came “ Good-night ” in the same hand, and 
nothing could induce Blanchette to further move- 
ment. 

They talked it over. Even Chrissalyn was in- 
terested. Prescott writing through Blanchette 
did not seem like dead people coming back in the 


192 


An Index Finger. 

gruesome way she dreaded. Eather was it as 
though he had never died, but only become in- 
visible. There was nothing about this to inspire 
terror. After the first surprise of it, it even 
seemed natural ; and it was a pleasure to have a 
word from him, though it were of his love for 
another. What matter ? She loved him, — that 
was enough. And it was a comfort to know that 
he was sometimes near, in spite of the fact that 
she had believed dead people ought to keep to 
themselves. However, with Prescott it was dif- 
ferent. Somehow he was not dead people. 

Then, too, the priestess had her vanity — a 
streak of the kind that wants appreciation for 
her ability as well as her beauty. Cartice’s gifts 
of pen and pencil she had craved, if not envied. 
Now that she knew she had a power her friend 
had not — one which Cartice thought of inesti- 
mable value — she saw that this gave her additional 
importance in Mrs. Doring’s eyes, hence she 
secretly plumed herself a little. 

She consented to continuing their experiments 
with Planchette on condition that no one else 
should ever be told. Were it known, she would 
be called a “ spirit medium,” and that would be 
disgraceful, unendurable. They might say al- 
most anything else of her and she wouldn’t 
mind ; but to have that name fastened upon her 
would be a calamity. 

A ‘‘ medium ! ” To her the word was beyond 


A Little Board Bridges the Great Gulf. 193 

words in its despicable significance. Were not 
mediums a disreputable order of human buzzards, 
who preyed upon the credulity and holiest emo- 
tions of honest folk ? Were they not despised, 
abhorred, shunned and feared by the better class 
of society? Were they not ignorant, frowsy, 
ugly and generally dirty ? Did they not invari- 
ably say “ sect ” when they meant “ sex,” and 
talk mind-weakening twaddle about “ controls,” 
“ infiuences,” “ impressions ” and so on, in Eng- 
lish that was in open warfare with all grammat- 
ical rules ? And were they not frequently 
chummy with invisible Indians, — going about 
boasting that they were constantly attended 
by some “ Blackhawk,” “ Fire-eye,” “ Thunder- 
Tongue,” “Yellow Feather,” or “ Crow-on-the- 
head,” who made them the mouthpieces of idiotic 
gibbering ? 

Do they not come out of cabinets, wearing 
trailing robes and tin crowns, trying to palm 
themselves off as dead and gone kings and 
queens ? Have they not an uncanny affinity for 
tables ? And do they not talk through trumpets, 
ring bells and play other stupid pranks and lay 
the blame of it all on the defenceless dead ? 
Had they not thrown discredit upon ISToah Web- 
ster himself, accusing him of a written message 
which said, “ It is tite times ” ? 

Truly their sins were as scarlet. Cartice ad- 
mitted their iniquities without argument, and 


194 


An Index Finger. 

promised her friend that never, never, even in 
her most secret thoughts would she call her a 
medium, much less breathe the opprobrious 
epithet to others. 

They went patiently on with their investiga- 
tion, devoting two evenings a week to Planchette 
and telling no one. It was by no means all fair 
weather work either. They soon found that the 
only thing they could be sure of was that they 
could depend on nothing ; that with the intelli- 
gence which manipulated Planchette no contract 
could be made. They came, or they came not, 
just as it suited their good pleasure, and were 
obedient to no mandate or appeal. They were 
arbitrary always, and, as in most affairs of life, 
it was the unexpected that happened. From 
what the investigators could learn, it would 
seem, as Mr. W. T. Stead says, that although this 
would is queer the next appears to be queerer. 

As they went on, they held more and more to 
the belief that they were actually communicating 
with persons who had lived in flesh-and-blood 
bodies like our own, and who still lived, retaining 
the same characteristics that distinguished them 
here, but invisible to our eyes — inhabitants per- 
haps of the much discussed Fourth Dimension of 
Space. At least, one and all represented them- 
selves as the persons whom we call dead, but who 
live — live in a freer, larger life. 

Occasionally they gave proofs of their identity 


A Little Board Bridges the Great Gulf. 195 

so convincing that all doubt vanished. They 
made it clear that the spark of divinity we call 
individuality is a persistent, indestructible, death- 
less thing. Again, messages were written which 
were not only trifling and valueless, but also un- 
settling. 

However, Cartice and the pretty priestess went 
on, feeling their way through laws as yet scarcely 
discernible, but stupendous. It was soon evi- 
dent that each spirit could manifest its individ- 
uality through Blanchette as forcibly and unmis- 
takably as is done here by means of epistolary 
correspondence — more clearly, perhaps, since 
when the little board writes, its movements and 
general behavior betray the mannerisms of the 
unseen writer. When a woman spoke through it 
the feminine touch was unmistakable, and the 
writing itself showed the flner element of femi- 
ninity. It must be remembered that the Butter- 
fly, as the visible operator, was simply part of the 
implement. The real writers were inhabitants of 
the unseen world. These the two investigators 
sometimes spoke of as spirits, though they realized 
that assuredly they were people like ourselves, 
though existing under different conditions. They 
were spirits, without doubt ; yet so are we, though 
most of us are unaware of our true being. 

But few women came. Cartice was surprised 
at this, and asked one the reason why. She said 
the men were stronger, and were so eager to write 


196 


An Index Finger. 

that they crowded women out and took possession 
of the opportunity. Hence it may be supposed 
that masculine selfishness is not eliminated from 
the character by dropping the body, and that 
what we call brute strength, (which is in reality, 
strength of the spirit) is still formidable where 
bodies, as we know them, are not. 

It was noticeable that these invisible folk sel- 
dom spoke of themselves as dead. They had 
almost no use for the word. They spoke of those 
we call living as “ people still with you,” and of 
those whom we call dead as with us.” When 
asked if they knew such and such a person, they 
sometimes met the question with the inquiry, “ Is 
he with you or with us ? ” 

At times they readily wrote during a whole 
evening, first one, then another, and so on, each 
writer showing a different personality by means 
of manner, chirography, style of speech and char- 
acter of thought. At such times page after page 
as large as the table top would be covered. 
Again, evenings would pass with but trifling re- 
sults, and now and then no communication what- 
ever would be received. Hor could the investi- 
gators learn the reason of this. Simply, so it 
was, and the fact had to be accepted without ex- 
planation. 

The revelations were not always serious. Oc- 
casionally they were of clown-like jollity, evi- 
dently proceeding from clownish intellects. Fre- 


A Little Board Bridges the Great Gulf. 197 

quently the writers refused to give any clue to 
their identity, and as for names there was a pal- 
pable avoidance of them that was puzzling. Oc- 
casionally a name would be given as readily as 
when its owner was here, but usually friends and 
acquaintances revealed themselves by their pe- 
culiar characteristics and references to past events, 
and this, of course, was the better method, as any 
mischievous spirit could pretend to be somebody 
else, if names were the sole reliance. 

Prescott came often, and was always unmis- 
takably Prescott. Transition had not changed 
him. His individuality, so original, distinct and 
strong, was as conspicuous and recognizable, re- 
vealed through the little board, as when he had 
mingled with men, uttering himself boldly, with- 
out fear or favor. 

Sometimes he burst upon his two faithful 
friends like a tornado, making Planchette fly 
flercely. They could almost see him sweep oth- 
ers aside and take possession. His speech was 
crisp, keen and sparkling, as in the old days, but, 
if possible, he was less communicative about him- 
self than ever. When they questioned him on 
that point, he made neat evasions ; but they gath- 
ered the impression that he was not entirely sat- 
isfied. Though he did not say so, they could not 
help feeling that the activities of life here still 
attracted him, and that he was not content at 
being unable to take part in them. 


198 


An Index Finger. 

Kemembering his sneers and jeers at all belief 
in the extension of life beyond death, in whatever 
form, Cartice reminded him of them, and asked 
what he thought now of his previous errors. 
With his customary frankness he answered : ' 

I was a fool then ; but I confess now that I 
always believed far more than I would have ac- 
knowledged. I was afraid you would think me 
weak if I admitted all I thought possible. I was 
a coward, you see, though I showed precious lit- 
tle mercy to other cowards.” 

Then she asked about his presentiment of hap- 
piness on his last evening on earth, and he an- 
swered : “ I suppose it was given me so I might 

know that the end of trouble and turmoil was at 
hand ; but I was blind, as you all are, and did 
not understand.” 

She begged him to relate his experiences in 
the new life from his first moment of conscious- 
ness. To this ontreaty he replied : 

“ I will try to do so sometime when I am bet- 
ter instructed than now. As yet I am too new 
here to tell you what you wish to know. I have 
much to learn before I can be a safe teacher for 
anybody.” 

To many questions he made neither answer 
nor apology for his failure to answer. It was 
plain that he could not, would not or dare not 
tell much about the life he was now living. Once 
in response to a particularly direct question bear- 


A Little Board Bridges the Great Gulf. 199 

ing on that, he said, with a shade of sadness in 
the words : 

“Wait in patience, and be as happy as you can 
till your time comes.” 

And again : “ Could you but see how things 

are carried on here you would know how foolish 
some of your questions are.” 

From this they gathered that conditions in the 
unseen world are vastly different from those we 
are familiar with here, but in what respect they 
could form no idea. 

He had been a strong advocate of cremation. 
When asked if he still held to his former opin- 
ions on that subject, he said : 

“ To us it makes no difference what is done 
with the carcass. To you it is important that it 
does not endanger the public health.” 

Once when Cartice remarked to her friend, as 
they sat together awaiting Blanchette’s pleasure, 
that perhaps the disembodied people suffer be- 
cause of the destruction of their bodies, Prescott 
sprang upon them in a kind of fury, writing with 
savage haste : 

“ Do you suffer when you cut your finger-nails 
and throw away the cuttings ? Or when you 
clip your hair and burn the clippings ? The body 
is of the same character, mere waste material — 
cast-off clothes.” 

When asked why he did not always come 
when they called him and awaited him, he said : 


200 


An Index Finger. 

“ I wish you understood. I come when pos- 
sible, but I cannot always control the matter.” 

Sometimes Cartice and Chrissalyn devoted an 
afternoon to Planchette, but generally with less 
satisfactory results than when they experimented 
in the evening. The reason of this they could 
not fix upon until Prescott gave them a clue. On 
one such occasion, he said with petulance : 
“ Why do you call us in the broad day, when we 
can give you more satisfaction at night ? Day is 
your time for action, but night is ours. Life 
here is the antithesis of life with you. Condi- 
tions are reversed.” 

May we inquire why you cannot do so well 
for us in the daytime when you do come ? ” Mrs. 
Doring asked, humbly. 

“ Because the vibrations of light are destruc- 
tive to the power we make use of for purposes of 
communication with you.” 

This, then, is a rational explanation of the 
dark seances so much condemned by persons un- 
acquainted with psychic law, and which, unhap- 
pily afford such fine opportunities for knavish 
deception. 

“ You speak of our calling you. Does it really 
call you when we sit with the Planchette and 
ask for you ? ” 

^^Yes; through a law it would be difficult for 
you to understand, however carefully I might 
try to explain it. Even I as yet comprehend it 


A Little Board Bridges the Great Gulf. 201 

but dimly. Your thought reaches us, for thought 
is omnipotent in all the universe, and is the finest 
form of electricity which travels with incredible 
speed. Your desire is a great force going forth 
to draw to you what you desire. The law of de- 
mand is met by the law of supply throughout all 
worlds, when it is properly set in motion. Your 
sitting expectantly, with Blanchette as the in- 
strument of communication, makes a magnetic 
centre, a veritable telegraph office to which we 
can come and through which we can transmit 
messages. It is all done under law, and so is 
everything in the universe. Find out the laws 
that govern your own being and there is no limit 
to your powers.” 


202 


An Index Finger. 


CHAPTER XII. 

AND THE PROPHET WAS STONED. 

Those who believe, as I do, that spiritual beings can and do, 
subject to general laws and for certain purposes, communicate 
with us, and even produce material effects in the world around 
us, must see in the steady advance of inquiry and of interest 
in these questions the assurance that, so far as their beliefs are 
logical deductions from the phenomena they have witnessed, 
those beliefs will at no distant date be accepted by all truth- 
seeking inquirers , — Alfred Bussell Wallace. 

One Sunday afternoon when the two friends 
sat together, with Planchette as telephone to the 
invisible world, the responses were unusually 
prompt and full, for a daytime effort. Prescott 
came and was in a most obliging mood, as charm- 
ing as of old. Without warning, when in the 
middle of a long sentence that he was writing at 
his usual furious pace, some invisible force drew 
the Butterfly’s arm from Planchette and sent the 
little board flying across the room. At the same 
instant she rose, raised her right hand and 
pointed directly before her, her face ashy and an 
unearthly look in her dilated eyes. Straining 
her faculty of sight Cartice looked in the direc- 
tion of her friend’s outstretched finger, but saw 
nothing. In a few seconds the beautiful seeress 
sank to her chair exhausted, with dry mouth and 


And the Prophet was Stoned. 203 

stiffened tongue, like one who returns to con- 
sciousness after a deep faint. 

Mrs. Doring rushed for water for her to drink, 
and cologne with which to lave her face, embraced 
her, and soothed her with reassuring words until 
she was herself again, though more subdued and 
humble than ever before. 

“ What was it, dear ? ” asked Cartice at last. 

Prescott,” she gasped. “ He was as real in 
appearance as ever I saw him in lifeo The scar 
on his left cheek was plain, and the tooth in front 
that had been built up with gold was just as it 
used to be, for he smiled and I saw it distinctly. 
He spoke, but I could not understand what he 
said. He came so sudden, and I was so fright- 
ened. I hope he will never do that again. It 
gives me a horrible feeling to see any of them.” 

After a little coaxing she touched Planchette 
again, to ask an explanation of the singular oc- 
currence. 

“ I did not mean to frighten you, poor child,” 
wrote Prescott, ‘‘ but I wanted to see if I could 
make myself visible to you for an instant. The 
exhaustion you experienced afterward was not 
all owing to fright. In order to appear to you I 
took a certain substance from your body with 
which to make myself visible. I made my body, 
for the moment, out of yours. That leaves you 
weaker, but what I took will be restored to you. 
This vital substance is everywhere, and your 


204 An Index Finger. 

body, being a magnet, attracts it to you, particu- 
larly when you are out doors in the sunlight. 
Oh, if you but knew the valve of sunshine, and 
air — pure, fresh air.” 

Why couldn’t I see you, too ? ” Cartice 
asked. “ I should not be frightened ; but even 
so, I am willing to be.” 

“ I have tried to lift the veil from your eyes, 
but cannot.” 

‘‘But the scar and the tooth of gold ? Were 
they not of the cast-off body only, or do you 
have them still ? ” she asked. 

“ The human eye must have that with which 
to indentify those from this side, so they are 
simulated as they last appeared in the flesh.” 

One evening, when another was writing, 
Blanchette was unexpectedly and violently flung 
to the floor, by a blow on the Butterfly’s delicate 
arm, from an unseen hand. When order had 
been restored, Prescott took possession, and it 
was plain to be seen that he was agitated. He 
wrote : “ I tried to prevent that, but could not. 
Chrissalyn must be prepared to expect almost 
anything. The situation here is incomprehensi- 
ble to you.” 

“ What is it that makes the Butterfly a me- 
dium, if she will pardon the word?” Cartice 
asked. 

“ Something for which there is yet no proper 
word. You would call it, magnetism. She is 


And the Prophet was Stoned. 205 

wonderful, — powerful, magnetic to the dead, as 
you call us, as well as to the living — ^you cannot 
imagine how much.” 

Cartice had ever been sensible of a powerful 
and unaccountable attraction in her friend. She 
had always loved to watch Chrissalyn, she knew 
not why, loved to be near her and never wearied 
of her. For others, both men and women, the 
Butterfly possessed the same attraction. If she 
wanted to ensnare the most wary masculine 
mortal, she had only to cast her eyes upon him 
and he was hers. If she wished for the good-will 
or friendship of a woman, a smile and a pleasant 
word or two were all she need give in order to 
gain it. 

“ Tell me, what is magnetism ? ” was the next 
question. 

“ A power we cannot see but can feel — the 
power that attracts through all nature, but I can- 
not define it, for as yet I know very little about 
it myself.” 

When asked to explain his manner of using 
Planchette, Prescott said : 

“ When the Butterfly’s hand rests upon it we 
stand behind her, with our hands above hers — a 
few inches above — and we move her hand and 
Planchette by the power of magnetism.” 

“ Why can’t you use my hand as well as hers ? ” 
Cartice asked. 

“ Because you are a positive. Your magnetism 


206 An Index Finger. 

is of the controlling and not the controllable 
kind.” 

Early in her investigations Mrs. Boring learned 
that the people on the unseen side of life are like 
unto those seen, in that there are good and bad, 
wise and foolish, busy and idle, truth-tellers and 
liars, sane and insane. Character there is ex- 
actly what it was here, growing better if it aspire 
and worse if it be indifferent to growth, for 
evolution apparently goes on forever and for- 
ever. 

She learned, too, that a message was not nec- 
essarily infallible, because it came from that we 
call a spirit. Frequently it was wofully fallible. 
Liars will lie and the mischievous make mischief 
wherever they are. In short, undeveloped souls, 
no matter where they dwell, give very direct 
evidence of their imperfection. 

Yet, all things considered, Cartice met com- 
paratively few obstacles in her study of psychic 
life and law. Much, to be sure, was inexplicable 
and perplexing ; but that which was satisfying 
outweighed all that was disheartening. To the 
harmony existing between Chrissalyn and her- 
self she attributed the remarkable success of their 
efforts, harmony being the key to all the secrets 
and forces of nature. Then too they sat with 
business-like regularity. Now she understood 
why the “ conditions ” for which professional me- 
diums are such noted sticklers, are necessary. 


And the Prophet was Stoned. 207 

When we stop to think of it, we see that we 
must comply with prescribed conditions to do 
anything. If we send a letter through the post 
office, the conditions imposed oblige us to stamp 
it properly and post it. If we merely write the 
letter and fling it out of the window, ignoring the 
needful conditions, most assuredly it will never 
reach its destination. If we wish to make a 
journey the conditions oblige us to go aboard 
whatever railroad carriage or ship will take us 
where we want to go. 

The knowledge gained through Planchette was 
precious beyond price to Mrs. Doring. Is it not 
the answer to the riddle of the ages ? ” she asked 
herself. “ Does it not change the face of every- 
thing, by giving us not only the key to death, 
but to the great mystery of life ? In the light of 
this knowledge life takes on an importance, a 
sacredness and responsibility formerly incon- 
ceivable. Heretofore we have hoped that it goes 
on beyond the destruction of the body, now we 
know it does, and that we are shaping our destiny 
by every thought and act — building indeed for 
eternity. 

“ Of what moment are the ills of life here, with 
this glorious vista before us ? Who, having seen 
this light, need be cast down by any earthly 
trouble ? In the face of it are not all the experi- 
ences which wring our hearts and drain us of our 
tears mere Actions or illusions ? 


208 


An Index Finger. 

‘‘ Since Death is dead, what is there to affright 
or distress us ? Though to-day be lost, to-mor- 
row is ours. Though our dear ones pass out of 
sight there is neither separation nor bereave- 
ment. Scientific knowledge makes it plain that 
immortality is not dependent upon belief ; but is 
a fact in nature. Though we may wander in 
any part of the universe there is nothing to fear, 
for we are indestructible. Disease, Avar, acci- 
dent, every terror known to man, is swept out of 
existence by this indisputable demonstration of 
our deathlessness. 

How poor and pitiful is the pursuit of happi- 
ness in which all engage here, when seen by the 
light of this revelation ! Is it not clear as sun- 
shine that the purpose of life is not happiness, as 
we misinterpret the word, but growth? And 
how shall we grow ? By getting knowledge of 
law and living according to that knowledge. 
Then we need seek no more for happiness for it 
will be one of our indestructible possessions — the 
happiness for which nature destined us, but which 
consists not in external conditions, but internal 
development.” 

Under the influence of this knowledge Mrs. 
Doring became transformed into a new being. 
Her previous life now seemed to have been 
simply a blind groping after the most unstable 
and foolish ideals, — a more intellectual childhood. 
So uplifted and filled to overflowing was she Avith 


209 


And the Prophet was Stoned. 

joy and gratitude that her face took on a new 
beauty that impressed even the least observing of 
her friends. But one flavor of bitterness tinged 
her cup, and that was that she was forbidden to 
share the glad tidings with others. 

Chrissalyn had been insistent that nothing be 
told, and Cartice was obliged to yield to her 
ruling on this point, and also saw the necessity 
for it, but longed fervently to gather in many 
dwelling in darkness and share her light with 
them. Why hide it under the bushel of timidity ? 
Was not all the world searching for that which 
had come in beautiful simplicity and generous 
fulness to her ? How grateful others would be 
to know what she knew ? She was humbly, pro- 
foundly grateful, and of course they, too, would 
be. 

After a time this pent-up fountain began to 
overrun its borders and trickle its way to other 
ears. When she heard people bewailing the dif- 
ficult and cruel conditions under which they suf- 
fered, she could not help giving of her inex- 
haustible store of comfort. She must say to 
them, “ These things are unreal and of no mo- 
ment. Your true life is above and beyond them 
always, and is of unlimited possibilities here and 
hereafter.” 

And when they wept because of some slain 
lamb, she said, “ He is not dead ; he never died 
and never shall die. This is an appearance 


210 An Index Finger. 

only, an illusion. There is no death. Life goes 
on, on, without end, I 'kno%o it.’’ 

In order that they might believe and be com- 
forted, she related the experiences on which her 
assurances were based, leaving out Chrissalyn’s 
name, of course. 

She met the fate of all who have lovingly tried 
to set poor, ignorant humanity free from its self- 
imposed chains. She was stoned. 

Some heard her with tolerant pity, as we 
humor weak-minded people by pretending to ac- 
cept their statements and vagaries, but turned 
from the subject as quickly as they could. Not 
a few sneered openly, and with the brutal frank- 
ness of small and self-satisfied minds coarsely ex- 
pressed their contempt for her credulity. Others 
patronizingly said they believed in her honesty, 
but were positive she was being deceived. Still 
others shrugged their shoulders in disgust, saying 
that they loathed the ‘‘ supernatural,” and would 
none of it. This benighted class labels their dead 
with that obnoxious word and shoves them out of 
mind as quickly as possible. Some of the con- 
temptible creatures who advertise their lack of 
intelligence and breeding by putting their hands 
over their mouth when they talk to hide their 
impolite and ignorant grinning, could not listen 
to Cartice with naked lips at all. But perhaps 
she was most astonished at the “ conventional be- 
lievers who disbelieve,” those who accept all the 


211 


And the Prophet was Stoned. 

spirit manifestations described in the book of 
their faith, yet reject everything modern that 
helps to prove the truth of them. 

Some listened to her story and then asked the 
surprising, the astounding question : What good 
can come of it all, even if it be true ? ” If the 
dead did not come to tell them how to make 
fortunate financial speculations, or whom they 
are destined to marry, they saw no use in their 
coming at all. 

Here and there Mrs. Coring encountered some 
who took interest in her revelations as a matter 
of curiosity, and wanted to gratify their love of 
wonder-mongering, by seeing Planchette at work. 

A few, a sacred few, gave reverent ear, and 
were eager to learn all they could of the marvel- 
ous and mysterious thing called life ; but these 
had become as little children — receptive, and 
therefore were prepared to enter the kingdom of 
knowledge, which is heaven. 

But, alas ! for the unfortunate many who can- 
not be enlightened, because they are already wise 
in their own conceit. Having lived here a score 
or two of years they fancy they know all the 
Creator’s plans and purposes and can learn no 
more. At the door of their mind they post a 
sentinel armed with a club, whose duty it is to 
beat and drive away any stray angel in the guise 
of a thought or idea that may wander near. 

Some who did not want to be disturbed in 


212 


An Index Finger. 

their enjoyment of things external, pettishly 
said : “ All you tell may be true, but one world 
at a time is my motto.” Yet any one who said 
that a child should be left uninstructed and un- 
prepared for the grown-up life ahead of him 
would, very appropriately, be called a fool. 

Cartice learned what all prophets and teachers 
have learned to their cost — that the world is in 
bondage to its own ignorance, because it refuses 
to be liberated. The minds of men are in thrall 
to a law we have but recently named — the law 
of hypnotism, which is at once both the agent of 
darkness and of light. 

Everybody lives continually under hypnotic 
influence, otherwise the power of suggestion. 
What we call public opinion is thought that has 
massed itself into a barrier so formidable that 
only spirits the most heroic and dauntless dare 
assail it. The many are fused together as one 
and become a gigantic hypnotizer of men. 

It has been demonstrated a million times that 
if there is anything a man cannot do it is to 
stand out against the united thought of his fellow 
men. Human beings, for the most part, are in 
slavery to whatever thought has formed their 
environment, ^^as neat prisoners as ever slept 
in jails.” In other words they are hypnotized 
and refuse to be aroused from their hypnotic 
sleep. 

All who allow others to do their thinking live 


213 


And the Prophet was Stoned. 

and die in a hypnotic trance. The thought that is 
steadily thrown upon the minds of children year 
after year usually hypnotizes them for life. This 
is proven in their religious leanings. The ma- 
jority follow the lead of their parents and it is 
the same in politics. The boy is a democrat or 
republican, because his father was. We call it 
the force of early education, but we might as 
well say early hypnotism. 

The press is the greatest of hypnotic operators. 
It makes public opinion through the hypnotic 
principle. Its daily reiteration puts the minds of 
impressionable readers into as profound a hyp- 
notic trance as any professional operator ever 
achieves. Every orator who sways his audience 
does so by means of the hypnotic law, and every 
writer who thrills his readers sets the same law 
in motion. In it lies the power of all govern- 
ment, from the primitive paternal to the broadest 
Kepublic the earth has yet produced — the will of 
the passably intelligent few is imposed upon the 
less intelligent many. 

Even the most potent force known — the at- 
traction that draws the sexes together, operates 
largely through hypnotism, or suggestion. Do 
we not become like that we hear and see and 
live among ? Are we not the product of what- 
ever thought we have absorbed during our life ? 
In short, we are that thought embodied, neither 
more nor less. Steady suggestion makes public 


214 An Index Finger. 

opinion, that terrible, formidable, irresistible wall 
against which new thought must beat and hack 
and storm for centuries sometimes before an in- 
cision can be made in it. 

We are all more or less in an hypnotic sleep. 
Certain intellectual hair-splitters deprecate the 
use of the word, hypnotism, when employed to 
describe a condition of mind that is not sleep, as 
we commonly use that term. Yet we may be 
awake to certain facts and asleep to others. 
When one cannot see a truth for a time and then 
recognizes it, we say he awakens to it. Was he 
not asleep as far as it was concerned before ? 

The hypnotic principle is as old as the human 
race. Yea, the hills are young beside it. By 
means of it we have become what we are, and 
because of it our progress has been slow, for the 
hypnotized subject holds to his illusions with a 
tenacity that throws barnacles into the shade. 
We were hypnotized into the old thought that 
enslaves us, and must be hypnotized out of it 
into that which shall set us free. 

This law is operative far beyond our range of 
knowledge. It links this world or this state of 
being, rather, to the one that follows it. 

What is the spirit medium but a person under 
the hypnotic influence of a resident of the invis- 
ible world ? And many who do not dream of it 
are hypnotized to an astonishing extent by sug- 
gestions from the same source. 


215 


And the Prophet was Stoned. 

Therefore, it is not remarkable that Cartice 
Coring found nearly everybody holding aggress- 
ively to the thought that had formed them, no 
matter how limited and erroneous it might be, 
and ready to fight, tooth and nail, anything con- 
trary to it. They groaned in pain, yet at a sug- 
gestion of relief from misery they but hugged it 
closer, lest it be taken from them by force. 

She did not expect any one to believe so 
tremendous a tale as she had to tell on hearsay 
evidence alone ; but she hoped to find some in- 
terest and desire to search and learn. When 
many turned away and she grew heartsick 
because they would not let her help them 
with that which had helped her, she thought she 
understood Jesus weeping over Jerusalem. ‘‘Ye 
would not ! no ; ye would not ! ” is ever the cry 
of all who yearn to make the yoke easy and the 
burden light for humanity. 

And yet no earnest effort made by any soul is 
entirely vain. Mrs. Coring found two who would 
among the many who would not — two who were 
eager to learn, who begged for the chance. 
They were the Joys, the last persons one would 
expect to turn their attention to anything not 
known by the name of pleasure. As a matter of 
fact they were Mr. and Mrs. Hanley, but every- 
body called them the Joys, because their days 
were an unbroken ripple of delight, and they 
were continually making a joyful noise over 


216 


An Index Finger. 

something. They joyed in each other, in their 
children, in their friends, in their home, in the 
world at large, in life, in everything. All days 
of the year were for them days of jubilee. Every- 
body welcomed them because they carried with 
them a joyful atmosphere, a little of which 
generally rubbed off and stuck to those whom 
they visited, for a time at least. A gay, guilt- 
less pair were they, with no need of prayer, and 
no sins to be forgiven, so far as any one could 
see. It may be wondered why they cared to 
learn anything about life’s extension since they 
found this world so pleasant. Yet care they 
did, and gladly turned from the impermanent 
things of the world that had delighted them to 
study reverently the great question of our desti- 
nation. 

Chrissalyn liked them and was finally per- 
suaded to let them enter Planchette’s charmed 
arena, on condition that they tell it not in Goth 
nor whisper it in Askalon. 

Their very first experience was convincing be- 
yond doubt or question. All they had joyed in 
before was as nothing to the joy they found in 
the knowledge that came to them through the 
little board. In spite of their pleasure-loving 
natures and phenomenal optimism, they belonged 
to the thinking fraternity ; and now that their 
outlook was extended beyond the boundaries that 
so far had hedged them in, they saw ahead an 


2ir 


And the Prophet was Stoned. 

endless life of Joy, and that intensified and en- 
nobled the joys of the present. They had been 
happy always, but now they were secure in their 
happiness — nothing could take it from them. 


218 


An Index Finger. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE TONGUES OF ANGELS. 

“When by suffering thou hast learned not to suffer — by pas- 
sion learned calmness ; 

Then shalt thou know what I am to thee — then shalt thou be 
A clean mirror where I am reflected — a face with a splendor 
which burns not ! 

Past all pain, seeing Me thou shalt know Me — the Strength 
and the Truth of Thyself .’^ — Voltairine DeCleyre, 

Being may he called the poorest, hut it is at the same time 
the most marvelous concept of our whole mind. It is the 
sine qua non of all we are, we see, we hear, we apprehend and 
comprehend. It is not our body, nor our breath, nor our life, 
nor our heart, nor what is most difficult to give up — our mind 
and intellect. It is simply that in which all these reside — 
that, in fact, in which we move and have our being. 

— F, Max Muller. 

The truth of being and the truth of knowing are one. 

— Bacon. 

Caetice and Chrissalyn permitted the Joys to 
join them in their investigations at certain times, 
but for the most part they pursued their study 
of psychic life alone. As they went on, their ex- 
periences became more interesting and convinc- 
ing. In the new world opened to them they 
made new friends. To be sure they could not 
see these friends, but they learned to know them 
well, to love them, and to distinguish one from 
another as readily and certainly as though they 
were of the visible part of creation. 


219 


The Tongues of Angels.. 

One of these new friends called himself 
Moreau and won their hearts completely with 
his courteous speech, kind instincts and gentle 
manners. Indeed, after making his acquaintance 
they understood how little the personality de- 
pends upon that which we call the person, which 
is but a mask, as the word originally meant. He 
came often and sometimes remained a whole 
evening, kindly writing for those who had not 
yet learned to manipulate Planchette, and an- 
swering questions with well-bred patience and 
never-failing politeness. When asked why he 
came to them and remained so faithful, when he 
had not known them here, he explained that he 
was attracted to both of them, because they were 
magnetic to him ; but that beside, it was his es- 
pecial mission to make lonely women happier. 
They learned to rely implicitly upon everything 
he said, just as they did on the word of Prescott, 
whose strict truthfulness had been his one vanity. 

“ How long is the act of dying ? ” Moreau was 
asked. 

“ It is longer for some than for others ; but 
you are sleeping at the time and know it not.” 

This statement was corroborated by the others. 
They said the death-sleep in some cases was of 
several days’ duration, — days as we reckon them 
here, but there Time’s markings are unknown, 
for Time is not. 

When Moreau was asked whether he knew 


220 


An Index Finger. 

everything about his friends here, present and to 
come, he said: “Not everything. There are 
some things we are not permitted to know any 
more than you are.” 

“ Do you pass on into other stages of existence 
— experience a change analogous to our dying 
here ? ” 

“ I think so ; but I am no more certain of that 
than you are about your future state.” 

“ How do you travel ? ” 

“Like lightning, or even more swiftly. We 
think of a place and in the same instant we are 
there. This is a thought world. So is yours, 
but you are blind to the power of thought on 
your plane.” 

“ Are you affected by the sorrows and pains of 
those you love, who are still on earth ? ” 

“We cannot help feeling the troubles of earth 
when they touch what you would call our heart- 
strings. But, as it were, we see with larger eyes 
— we understand better the purpose of suffering 
and the good that comes out of it.” 

A friend to Cartice who had achieved consid- 
erable eminence as an analytical author, came 
occasionally. In the noonday of success she 
went away, after months of great physical suf- 
fering. When asked whether she was happy, she 
replied : 

“ It is happiness to me to have no aching 
heart, no pain, no burning brow.” 


221 


The Tongues of Angels. 

‘‘ Can you come to us when you please ? ” 

‘‘Sometimes only, not always. I feel a re- 
straint, though no restraint seems put upon me.” 

“ How do you occupy yourself, Edith ? ” 

“We do not have to occupy ourselves. We 
are occupied by others only. I cannot tell you 
better.” 

When questioned as to the kind of clothing 
used there, she said : “ The mist of earth is not 

a substance to be measured, weighed or worn by 
you. The material of our raiment is a thing of 
almost misty texture.” 

“ What is death ? ” 

“ To that question I will give you an explanar 
tion given me by one far wiser than I and much 
older in this realm of life : ‘ Death simply de- 

notes a rising from inactivity to action, from 
obscurity to eminence, awaking from sleep, or 
promotion from an inferior condition.’ ” 

“ Is there a resurrection ? ” 

“ Every death is a resurrection.” 

“ Edith, do you ever wish to be back here in 
the body ? ” 

“ Never. There would be nothing to gain and 
much to lose.” 

“ Why is it that although you and others come 
and talk with us clearly and freely at times, 
there is yet so much of your new life of which 
you tell us nothing ? ” 

“ There are many reasons, which I am not per- 


222 


An Index Finger. 


mitted to give, nor could you understand them. 
I myself comprehend them but dimly. I simply 
obey the law.” 

“What is the judgment, if there is a judg- 
ment ? ” 

“ For me it is the beholding of my mistakes.” 

“ What is the most wonderful phase of your 
present life, if I may be pardoned for so bold a 
question ? ” Cartice asked. 

“ The knowledge that love is all there is — that 
it fills all universes ; lights all worlds ; encom- 
passes every soul, and is the life of every soul. 
This is as true of your world as of ours ; but nearly 
all there refuse to believe it. Here we cannot 
doubt it — that is, those who have love in their 
own hearts cannot doubt it. Those who love not 
do not know it, for all is darkness to them ; but 
that darkness disappears when they begin to 
love.” 

“ What is love ? ” 

“ The living principle of good, which by a law 
that includes and governs all that is, constantly 
flows out from the infinite centre. The more you 
have of it the more of good in its highest and best 
form will you receive, because it is the greatest 
of all magnets, irresistibly attracting its like. 
Love is God. God is love. 

“You are destined to realize this fully some 
day ; but you might realize it even now if you 
would, and then the whole face of the earth 


223 


The Tongues of Angels. 

would change and become new and beautiful. 
Heaven, indeed, would be opened. But the love 
I speak of is not the sentiment that usually goes 
by that name on earth, which too often is but an 
exaggeration of self, a kind of sublimated selfish- 
ness, going out to special persons with whom 
your lives are intertwined and whose well-being 
particularly conduces to your own. Ho, no ; the 
love that is God is universal in its application, 
enfolding the humblest and most wayward as 
well as the highest and most perfect. Cultivate 
this love and you will find heaven even on the 
earth. All good will come to you. It is the 
kingdom of righteousness spoken of in your scrip- 
tures, to which, if you first seek and attain, all 
other things shall be added. Love, even in its 
crudest, most selfish expression and narrowest 
interpretation yet has in it a spark of the divine 
principle from the great source or centre which 
lights and gives life to all worlds and all con- 
sciousness.” 

‘‘ If you could give us but one precept to live 
by, what would it be ? ” 

“That which was given you by the beloved 
disciple : Love one another, for love is, indeed, 
the fulfilling of the law. But remember that 
‘ one another ’ includes all that live. The law is 
not fulfilled when you only love those of your 
own household, or such as minister to your en- 
joyment.” 


224 An Index Finger. 

“ What are we here for ? What is the purpose 
of life?” 

“What is the purpose of any school? Is it 
not to fit its pupils for that which is to follow ? ” 

“ How can we best do that ? ” 

“By the unfoldment of your souls or selves 
— the best possible development of every unit. 
Your ethics have taught you to aim at the high- 
est good to the greatest possible number; but 
the true ethics of love are only content with the 
highest possible good to each individual.” 

“How do the things of earth appear to you 
now — the things we value and strive for so hard, 
wealth, fame, power, pleasure ? ” 

“As veils, or illusions which keep you from 
seeing the great and glorious light of truth — 
soap-bubbles, glistening and beautiful to the eye, 
but absolutely empty.” 

“ Do you not suffer at separation from friends 
here ? ” 

“ There is no separation. We are all one — all 
closely and indissolubly united — and that one in- 
cludes what is in your world as well as worlds 
upon worlds, far, far, beyond my power of im- 
agination — all that is, or was, or ever shall be. 
Sometimes death unites us more closely than 
ever to those still upon earth.” 

“ Does not the spirit sometimes faint with fear, 
when it first becomes aware that it has left the 
body forever ? ” 


225 


The Tongues of Angels. 

“It was not so with me. I was prepared. 
During my long illness I thought much of the 
future, knowing that the end of what you call 
life was near. In my mind I dropped the robe 
of flesh without regret, feeling that annihilation 
or anything that set me free from pain would be 
welcome. When at last I found that the silver 
— (otherwise the electrical) cord — was loosened 
and the body left behind, the experience seemed 
natural. True, it was not without awe, but that 
feeling of awe arose from the light and beauty, 
the newness and yet the familiarity of that on 
which I had entered. Yet it is not all new, for 
we still have the old, but understand it better — 
we see it with more comprehensive eyes — from a 
larger and higher outlook.” 

“ Is there anything there to depress or sadden 
you ? ” 

“To depress me, no; yet something akin to 
oppression I sometimes feel, because of the vast- 
ness, the immensity, the endlessness of every- 
thing. Doubtless you experience the same feel- 
ing often, when you look up at the stars and the 
mind is staggered and shrinks back upon itself at 
the majesty and grandeur of creation. But do 
not forget that the experiences of no two souls 
are exactly alike here, any more than on earth. 
That which this state of consciousness means to 
us, or holds for us, depends upon the degree of 
enlightenment we have attained before entering 


226 


An Index Finger. 

it — upon our mental, moral and spiritual atti- 
tude, our aspirations and desires — or character, 
or in short on what we have become.” 

“ Can you make things there, as here — shape 
things out of crude material, I mean ? ” 

‘‘We have no crude material. We have to do 
only with the finer forces. With us the idea 
creates. We form the idea, and lo! it immedi- 
ately is. We think, and the thought takes visi- 
ble form. Wonderful as this may seem to you, 
it is nevertheless as true of your world as of 
this, only the method is slower. The idea is al- 
ways the true creation, but to make it objective 
you must give it form with the hands, out of ma- 
terial substance. The imagination is the creative 
realm.” 

“ Have we each a guardian angel ? ” 

“Yes; every soul has a guide or helper, who 
ever works to incline one to good, and away from 
evil, yet leaves the will free. You, yourself, not 
he, must make the decisions. He suggests, but 
does not lead.” 

“ Who is my guardian angel ? ” Cartice asked. 
“ Who could he be if not one who loves you ? ” 
Once only Louis Doring came. He was the 
same as when here, full of self and empty of all 
else. Cartice did not encourage him to come 
again, feeling the distance between them to be 
greater than ever, — a distance measured by an 
absence of sympathy, which is the only distance 


327 


The Tongues of Angels. 

known to the soul. After uttering some of the 
flavorless nothings which ever characterized his 
conversation, he went and came no more. 

Chrissalyn’s great dread, frequently expressed, 
was that her husband or some of her near kindred 
might come. As long as none of her own house- 
hold came, Planchette did not seem uncanny ; but 
again and again she declared that if any one of 
them came she would be wretched for the rest 
of her life. Colonel Layton did not respect her 
wish, however. One night he took her unawares, 
as it were. Giving Planchette a peculiar spin, he 
wrote his name as characteristically as he had 
ever done in life. When Chrissalyn saw the sig- 
nature, she burst into uncontrollable sobbing, and 
begged him to go away. 

Cartice consoled her, and implored her to let 
him remain, while she talked a few moments with 
him, and this at last Mrs. Layton consented to 
do. 

“ Don’t cry, Chriss,” he wrote. “ I knew you 
didn’t want me to come ; but I wish to tell you 
that I am better here than there, just as you are 
far better without me. So it is well as it is. I 
was a poor devil there for a fact ; but I’m on the 
up-grade here.” 

Chrissalyn wept afresh, but heroically went on, 
and the Colonel wrote : 

‘‘ Mrs. Doring, why didn’t you attend my fu- 
neral ? ” 


228 


An Index Finger. 

Cartice looked aghast, the question, at first 
blush, being so extraordinary. At some length 
she explained that she was too ill to go. Evi- 
dently reading her unspoken thought, he wrote : 

Yes, I was present — the real I as well as the 
silent image of me in the box. I looked around 
at my leisure, and saw everybody there. I won- 
dered at your absence, you and Chriss being such 
close friends. Besides, you were always nice to 
me, too, God bless you ! ” 

At this tribute to her kindness from beyond 
the grave Cartice dropped a grateful tear. The 
ColoneFs nature had something childlike and 
sweet in it, in spite of its many defects. Most 
of his faults had been of a peevish and childish 
order. 

‘‘Thank you. Colonel Layton,” Cartice an- 
swered. “ I am glad to hear from you.” 

“ Mrs. Doring, do you remember the conversa- 
tion I had with you an hour or so before I made 
the final journey ? ” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ I sang about death being a narrow sea that 
divides your world from the land of pure delight. 
Well, it’s a very narrow sea — so narrow we can 
step across. In fact it isn’t a sea at all, for the 
two worlds are not really divided. They only 
seem to be.” 

Several times Mrs. Layton’s friend, Jessie, 
came. When asked whether she threw flowers 


229 


The Tongues of Angels. 

at her own funeral, she said she did ; that she 
knew beforehand that Chriss had the faculty of 
seeing certain things others could not, and had 
it in mind before she went away that she would 
do something to prove that death was only an 
illusion. 

Cartice’s great grandfather, who died before 
she was born, came and wrote his name in full, 
which she did not herself know. He told things 
pertaining to the family, which she afterward 
verified, among them being the name of the po- 
litical party to which he belonged, and which had 
long been extinct. His handwriting was of an 
older style, and he wrote with a deliberation un- 
common in the present day. 

Some communications purported to come from 
Horth American Indians, mighty chiefs and stal- 
wart braves with great dignity of manner and 
imposing names. After a time, however, Cartice 
inclined to the opinion that both the manner and 
the names were masks used to conceal identities 
that did not wish to be known. They spoke in 
the figurative style attributed to gifted red men, 
and for the most part their messages were inter- 
esting and instructive. 

Once when Mrs. Doring was very tired and 
discouraged one of them wrote : 

“ Is it not a pleasure to the squaw to convince 
the braves and old men that she teaches many 
truths? She must not let the ink dry in her 


230 An Index Finger. 

horn, for she can carry many braves with her in 
the councils.” 

Again, apparently overhearing the two investi- 
gators of psychic law talk of some poor, pitiful, 
hide-bound persons who found fault with every- 
body that did not revolve within their pint-meas- 
ure orbit, this same Ked Feather, as he called him- 
self, wrote with emphatic force : 

Be not tied by the ways of others. The eagle 
cannot fly with the wings of a chicken.” 

One evening Prescott wrote a few minutes and 
then excused himself from further work, saying 
that something had just occurred which made 
him too nervous to write. 

His two friends looked at each other in speech- 
less astonishment. Here was a mystery beyond 
other mysteries. Too nervous ? W ere not nerves 
but parts of the body, destined to dust with the 
rest of it ? 

Evidently understanding their amazement, he 
added this line after a moment’s pause : 

Incredible as it may seem to you, I still have 
nerves.” 

Once when Chrissalyn was peevish and dissat- 
isfled, she said she had a mind to give up fooling 
with Planchette ; that it was scary and risky, and 
there was no telling what was at the bottom of its 
queer doings. Prescott came like a flash to the 
rescue, fearful that she would put her threat into 
execution, and so cut off communication entirely. 


231 


The Tongues of Angels. 

O Butterfly, dear, don’t do that ! Please 
don’t, for my sake,” he pleaded, with an earnest- 
ness that touched their hearts. “ You do not ap- 
preciate this grand, beautiful privilege, which to 
me is so precious. Who, besides you can do this 
— converse freely with friends so far away that 
the railroad has never been made that can reach 
them ? ” 

Somewhat mollified by his pathetic tribute to 
her extraordinary psychic gifts, she grumbled 
that for his sake she wouldn’t give up Planchette. 
He continued : 

“ Had I known as much about the unknown 
future, when on earth, as you do, I should have 
thought myself wise, indeed. 

‘‘ It astonishes me now to remember that I ever 
doubted the persistence of the individual, the 
continuousness of life. Fools who think them- 
selves savants will tell you to have nothing to do 
with spirits, not to encourage them to come back, 
as that interferes with their progression, and 
other rubbish of the same sort. Such persons 
know nothing of the laws of progress here. The 
two worlds — in fact all worlds — are one and the 
same. Your best interests and ours are identical. 
There is no differentiation. Frequently our 
work lies entirely with you. What higher mis- 
sion could one have than to cheer and strengthen 
the disheartened and fainting ones of earth? 
^Ye help you, and you in turn often help us. 


232 


An Index Finger. 

What would you think of a friend who told you 
never to come and visit him, but to go on and 
progress by yourself? Well, spirits are simply 
human beings living under conditions as yet not 
understood by you. Many of them are your 
friends, whom you would not dream of treating 
discourteously while they were with you visibly. 
The pupils of your schools go from grade to 
grade. Those of the highest grade are not pro- 
hibited from contact with those of the primary, 
if they wish it, and often they return there as 
teachers. The division between your world and 
ours only exists for those not yet far enough de- 
veloped to understand its non-existence. It is 
not real, but only an appearance. It exists only 
in the consciousness of those ignorant of the 
great law of oneness which is operative every- 
where. And this is true of many things that 
seem very real to you. They only exist in your 
consciousness. Also that which is not within 
your consciousness has no existence for you what- 
ever. We are one — all the peoples of all uni- 
verses, and all are moving upward into light by 
means of the process called evolution, which is 
the unfolding and perfecting of man, who is 
spirit, not clay.” 

Are we ever reborn into this world ? ” 

“I am told that rebirth is one of the many 
methods open to the soul for progression.” 

Can you see our future in this world ? ” 


233 


The Tongues of Angels. 

Some have this faculty. I have not. They 
only see the main incidents, as a traveler, looking 
from a high hill, sees a guide-post ahead in the 
valley.” 

Are we ever entirely alone ? ” 

“Never. There is always the cloud of wit- 
nesses of which Paul spoke.” 

A stranger came sometimes whose character 
was of an antique mould. He gave no name, but 
others, when questioned about him, said he had 
been one of the great of earth, and also one of 
the good — none greater since Jesus. 

“ What is the soul of man ? ” Cartice asked 
him. 

“Can any one comprehend God?” was his 
reply. 

“ I do not understand,” she persisted. 

“Eternal being mirrors itself in every ex- 
istence — is every existence. When you know that 
indefinable, illimitable, deathless and divine 
manifestation called the soul, you will know 
God, for in the one is imaged or reflected the 
other. Kemember, eternal being is the back- 
ground of every existence.” 

Looking at these words fresh from an intelli- 
gence whose habitation earthly eye hath not seen, 
Cartice Doring thrilled with a strange joy, in 
sympathetic vibration with the wave of truth that 
touched her spirit. For one hallowed moment 
the great gates opened and she saw a light more 


234 


An Index Finger. 

beautiful than the light of the morning, more 
glorious than the light of many suns, softer, 
brighter, more beatific than was ever on sea or 
land, for lo ! she saw the refiection of the soul it- 
self, and understood its infinite source and death- 
less destiny. In that ineffable moment she knew 
that it never had birth and never should know 
death, and that separateness was not of it, nor 
was it divisible from aught there is, and difference 
there was none. On the bosom of eternal being 
it rested secure through a thousand illusions. 

The key that unlocked all mysteries was revealed 
by a fiash of the soul’s own light. Pale and 
trembling she bent her head till it lay on the 
written words of the nameless stranger, and 
closed her eyes that she and the great white light 
might be alone together. 

Thousands of years ago an Indian sage, when 
parting from his wife, said : “ We do not love the 
husband in the husband, nor the wife in the wife, 
nor the children in the children. What we love 
in them, what we truly love in everything is the 
divine spirit, (the eternal atman, the immortal 
and absolute self) ” — and as we should add, says 
Max Muller, the immortal God, for the immortal 
self and the immortal God must be one. 

Life’s boundless extension and endless progres- 
sion was ever the uppermost thought in Mrs. 
Doring’s mind. In it she found consolation for 


235 


The Tongues of Angels. 

all ills, as well as explanation of them. She 
pitied those still blind to this tremendous fact. 
What had they to uphold them in the terrible 
conflict we make of life ? 

What of the literature that only reaches the 
grave and there halts, unable to go further ? Is 
it not the literature of children, useful only to 
amuse and entertain them in idle hours? She 
had adored the art of letters, had made a fetich 
of it, paying homage to its great names and 
walking in its fair gardens with reverent steps. 
Now she asked herself what literature had done 
for the voiceless army of the dead. What repre- 
sentation had they in its pages ? The dead, the 
sacred dead, the beloved dead, what had letters 
done to bridge the stream that separates them 
from the living ? 

Poets had sent them to a far-off heaven or 
plunged them into a flaming hell to suit their 
moods and meters. Eomancers had used them 
as spectres to come upon the scene at inopportune 
moments and treat their readers to thrills. They 
were flippantly spoken of as “ spooks,” “ ghosts,” 
“ apparitions,” and “ supernatural appearances.” 
They were good stock in certain brands of stories 
which nobody believed in, and occasionally they 
were allowed to have a bit of business on the 
stage. Witless witlings had sneered at their 
claims to recognition, and writers of many minds, 
however they differed on other points, were gen- 


236 


An Index Finger. 

erally united in the effort to keep the dead, one 
and all, from rising. 

Authors of romances found death a convenience 
in disposing of inconvenient characters of their 
own creation. When they could not manage 
them effectively any other way, they slaughtered 
them remorsely, and that was the end of them ; 
that put them out of both writers’ and readers’ 
way for all time. Not even the good always 
escaped this doom. If readers could be enter- 
tainingly harrowed and wrought upon by the de- 
mise of the most angelic heroine, she had to die, 
and that finished her for friends and foes. At 
the grave everything ended. There love laid its 
treasures and turned hopelessly away ; and there 
hate sheathed its poniard in satisfaction, having 
reached its extreme limit. 

Now Cartice Doring saw clearly that there are 
no finalities here ; that the grave is not the end ; 
that it never imprisoned a human soul. She 
saw that a new literature must come forth to 
satisfy minds of larger growth, which look upon 
death, not as a finality, but a change of costume 
and the opening of a new act. And this literature 
must go to the point, straight and clear ; it must 
seek the solution of life’s problem and not merely 
amuse and beguile travelers on the journey. 

Many a night, while she walked home after an 
evening’s talk with her unseen friends, she felt in 
touch with all the universe. Nothing was far 


237 


The Tongues of Angels. 

olf, not even the stars, which looked down upon 
earth with tender human sympathy in their 
bright faces. She feared nothing, and knew no 
loneliness, feeling herself attended by an innu- 
merable company. Already she believed that 
what Kant said will yet be proved, ‘‘that the 
human soul, even in this life, is by an indis- 
soluble communion connected with all the imma- 
terial natures of the spirit world, acting upon 
them, and receiving impressions from them.” 

Kow she understood more clearly the meaning 
of this statement by our greatest philosopher, 
Emerson : “ every man is an inlet to the Divine 
mind and to all of that mind.” Yes, and an out- 
let, also. 

Now, now she began to see that “ the spirit of 
man is a personal limitation of the supreme 
spirit,” as another philosopher says ; that “ God 
is the all of man’s life, the power of man at bot- 
tom being the power of God.” 

Kow she could understand that “ what we call 
the material universe is but the manifestation of 
infinite Deity to our finite minds”; and that 
“our individual self is found,” as the ancient 
wisdom of the East, and likewise Jesus and Paul, 
affirms, “ included in the contents of the Absolute 
Being or Self.” 

“ Eternal Being mirrors itself in every exist- 
ence,” she murmured reverently ; “ Eternal Being, 
and we are it.” 


238 


An Index Finger. 

The pulsing, eager, feverish life of the city 
was stilled. Its people slept, at least they were 
asleep to the truth, and refused to be awakened. 
Thousands of Ephraims, joined to their idols, 
dwelt contentedly in their fools’ paradise, asking 
to be let alone. And what were those idols? 
Mists of their own creation, perishable and unreal 
— for nothing endures, nothing is real but being. 
Eternal Being. Like the wayward sons and 
daughters of old Jerusalem, they will not be 
gathered under the wing of even divine wisdom. 

The old dreams of childhood came back, with 
their perplexing reminiscence of life in a land re- 
mote in the past, whose people knew not misery. 

Had she lived before? Yes, always. How 
could it be otherwise with Eternal Being as the 
background, the source and centre of her exist- 
ence ? For this there was neither beginning nor 
end. Was she not an indestructible part of all 
that is, was and ever shall be ? Behind her was 
no birth ; before her no death. These were but 
world-fictions.” 

And what was she ? One of the millions of 
conscious atoms that make up the great whole — 
a woman walking the path alone, with a dash of 
genius, original, creative, commanding, it was 
said, and a force of will and character that made 
her respected and conspicuous among other 
atoms. Whence came the genius and the force 
of character ? From the infinite ocean of intelli- 


239 


The Tongues of Angels. 

gence and creative energy — from the one source 
and the one force. Why had she gifts and quali- 
ties others had not ? Because she had reached 
upward toward the light ; she had aspired, and 
as a consequence had expanded and grown. She 
had mirrored more of the supreme intelligence 
than many others, because she had desired it and 
had held her mind receptive to it. 

All her life at times she had been a prey to a 
deep dissatisfaction. An unspoken unrest, a pro- 
found melancholy lay beneath her sunniest hours, 
and she had experienced a yearning of the soul 
for that which perhaps no mortal ever attains. 

But now in these nights when she walked alone 
under the stars, illumined within by the light of 
truth, there were moments when her spirit 
vibrated in unison with the great spirit or self of 
the universe, and she was satisfied. She saw hu- 
manity, like a mighty river rolling slowly to the 
sea, each drop blending with others, and all im- 
pelled by a resistless force that bore them on- 
ward, they knew not whence nor whither. This 
river was rolling toward the ocean of truth, there 
to enjoy the freedom which was its divine destiny, 
and which each atom or drop could only reach 
by recognizing, living and becoming the truth. 


240 


An Index Finger. 


CHAPTEE XIV. 

THE SIMPLE WAY. 

** Life, with all it yields of joy and woe and hope and fear, 
Is just our chance o* the prize of learning love, 

How love might be, hath been, indeed, and is.’’ 

— Robert Browning, 

Talking with Gabriel Norris one day, Mrs. 
Doring could not refrain from telling him some 
of her astonishing psychic experiences. 

“ I have long known,” he said, “ that they whom 
we call dead are more alive than we are. I, too, 
have talked with them. Like St. Paul I am a 
spiritualist, a word which generally excites fear 
and horror in unenlightened minds. I preach 
spiritualism, plain and pure, but I don’t name it. 
Sometimes it is best not to label one’s knowledge. 
It only prejudices the ignorant against it, and 
builds a fence around one’s own mind as well as 
around one’s neighbor’s. A name is a limitation. 
That’s one reason why I cannot work in any or- 
ganization. I keep my spirit free, ever ready to 
absorb more truth, and I preach a free gospel, 
which, like all things else is susceptible to the in- 
fluence of new light. Truth is not all revealed to 
any man. Little by little one learns to know a 
greater degree of it, and so grows more and more 


241 


The Simple Way. 

free from error. What is evolution but a gradual 
growing out of darkness into light ? The proof 
that we live again is of tremendous importance, 
because with it comes the knowledge that every 
thought as well as every deed helps in the build- 
ing of our souls and our eternal destiny. That 
we shall live always is a fact in nature, but in 
what estate depends upon ourselves, upon our 
thoughts, aspirations and efforts, for man is the 
expression, or sum, of his desires. Here or else- 
where they shall be realized.” 

Gabriel wished he might have the great pleas- 
ure of a word with Prescott, whom he loved. 
Chrissalyn granted permission, and he went one 
evening to see the wonders of Planchette. Pres- 
cott obligingly came, and when Gabriel, with 
tears shining in his eyes asked if he had any par- 
ticular message for him, answered : 

“ Only to thank you for your good words 
about me in the church, when I could not speak 
for myself.” 

Gabriel had been one of several friends, ortho- 
dox and unorthodox, who made brief addresses at 
Prescott’s funeral, which, by the grace of a 
liberal-minded and great-hearted minister, was 
held in a church, in spite of the fact that the 
dead editor was a bold unbeliever. 

At these grateful words the eyes of the gentle 
preacher glistened and his voice wavered with 
feeling, as he said : You deserved all the praise 


242 


An Index Finger. 

I gave you. You did your best. You spoke 
truth and lived truth as you saw it. None can 
do more.” 

In saying this Gabriel unconsciously raised his 
voice higher and higher till he ended in a shout, 
so natural was it to think of Prescott as far off 
because he was out of sight. 

“ Thank you again, Gabriel,” he wrote ; ‘‘ but 
let me tell you, that although I used to be a little 
deaf, I hear perfectly well now.” 

Gabriel laughed heartily as it dawned upon 
him that he had been shouting at his invisible 
friend, and thought Prescott must be laughing 
too. 

“ Are all cured of their physical defects over 
there ? ” Gabriel asked. 

“ Not immediately, for illness or wholeness is a 
matter of the consciousness, and that cannot be 
completely changed at once. It is all progres- 
sion, growth, expansion, but it takes what you 
call time to effect it. There is plenty of work 
for you, Gabriel, here as well as there.” 

‘^I am glad of that,” said the unordained 
preacher. “ An idle heaven would be hell for me. 
Man’s desire for action and his pleasure in it are 
strong evidence of his immortality. Were death 
— extinction — his destiny, somehow he would 
have known it, and would have been indolent in- 
stead of busy. It is true that much of his work 
is impermanent and useless or worse than use- 


243 


The Simple Way. 

less ; but it is the effort he puts forth, the exer- 
cise of will, that is the valuable part of it. That 
which he is really building through all his 
blundering and the only part of his work that 
endures, is character.” 

“ Truth, Gabriel ! You speak immortal truth,” 
Prescott wrote. Now, good-night.” 

Do you really believe you have been talking 
with Gordon Prescott ? ” Cartice asked. 

“Yes,” said Gabriel, simply. “ I could not prove 
it to others ; neither can I prove that a letter is 
from the person whose name is signed to it, with- 
out his personal affirmation, and even that is only 
valuable in proportion to his reputation for truth- 
telling. Most of what we call proofs of anything 
is flimsy and fallible.” 

“ I want to tell you, Mr. Norris,” said Cartice, 
speaking with feeling, “ that I owe you far more 
than you are aware of. You first gave me light, 
and you were a mascot for me, besides, in worldly 
success. Through meeting you the tide of my for- 
tune, the day I met you, turned from ebb to flow. 
The drawing I made of you opened the door of 
opportunity for me. But giving me light was 
the greatest service. That day, in your lecture 
at the market house you told us we were not here 
simply to be happy; that happiness as we pic- 
tured it, was not the purpose of existence ; that 
we were here to learn and to grow to the per- 
fection nature intended, as a plant or a tree 


244 


An Index Finger. 

grows. In other words, we are to unfold from 
the seed and express our true being. Up to that 
time, like everybody else, I had made the hunt 
for happiness my chief aim. When, in conse- 
quence of that, I found myself swamped in mis- 
ery, I considered myself injured, and felt sure 
somebody was to blame. I could not see that I, 
myself, was the culprit ; that the selfish search 
for happiness must lead directly away from that 
condition. Ah, I suffered much, much up to that 
time ; but I see the uses of it now. I was being 
educated by the only means possible. Had I 
secured the kind of happiness I was looking for, 
I should still be in darkness. It was the ideal of 
an undeveloped mind. Now I see plainly that 
the spiritual side of suffering is good. It means 
birth — the birth of knowledge, of light, of truth. 
I don’t think suffering is ‘ sent upon us,’ as many 
good people assert. We pursue false ideals and 
they bring us to grief ; but through that suffer- 
ing we find the true ideals. Suffering becomes 
our teacher. Truth, which is good, is ever strug- 
gling to express itself through us; but in our 
ignorance we oppose and obstruct it, and that 
makes pain for us. All suffering comes from our 
obstinate opposition to good, though we are usu- 
ally unconscious of it till our eyes are opened. I 
thank you again for helping me. Since that day 
suffering has fallen away from me to a great ex- 
tent. As soon as I became willing to suffer in 


245 


The Simple Way. 

order to get on the right road, I ceased to suffer. 
Strange laAv, but true. And so I argue that 
when we cease to pursue happiness or think 
about it we shall possess it.” 

Yes, it has long been clear to me that we are 
not here to hunt happiness ; though I doubt not 
that every human soul is destined to be happy ; 
but it will be an order of happiness most unlike 
the common dream. Even here it could be found, 
if we sought it where the master told us to look. 
Did he not say that the kingdom of heaven is 
within us? It is a state of consciousness. He 
told us how to attain it, too. How simple the 
way ! Only to love one another. This, indeed 
would make heaven for us all. That is what we 
are here to learn — that is the chief end of man, 
for, when we learn that, we shall know all the 
law — all there is to learn, and shall have reached 
the full development which is the purpose of our 
existence. How simple the way! We have no 
call to go forth and reform our erring brother ; 
to devise schemes to save his soul ; to build bar- 
riers to put temptation out of his way ; to weave 
nets to ensnare him to our faith. We have only 
to love him. Thus shall we fulfill all the law ; 
thus shall we do all we have to do. Neither are 
we here to do good. Even this is not our work 
in life. Many well-meaning people busy them- 
selves, and bluster about doing good, from their 
point of view. Oftener than not they put their 


246 


An Index Finger. 

Father’s house in disorder. We are to he good. 
Then the doing of good conies without effort. 
We are here but for one purpose, and that is to 
learn and therefore grow. To learn that we are 
the sons and daughters of God — otherwise su- 
preme wisdom, love, life, light and intelligence. 
The more we recognize this infinite source of our 
being the more of it we refiect and become, the 
more perfect our development. And how shall 
we do this ? In the simple way we were told — 
only by loving one another. This is the purpose 
of our creation. This includes all there is to 
know, and to become. This is the perfection at 
which we were told to aim. This sets our feet 
on the road to happiness.” 

What is the body ? ” Cartice asked. 

Perhaps it is the objective side of our exist- 
ence on this plane — the self as it appears to 
others, but not as it really is.” 

After Gabriel was gone Chrissalyn said with a 
yawn : 

“Cartice, you and Gabriel tire one all out 
bothering about the ^purpose of life,’ the soul 
and the body and so on. What’s the good of 
heating your heads about such things ? Just to 
slip through easy, is all I’m asking now.” 

“Yes, dear; but you are a Butterfiy and have 
a butterfly’s standard. Gabriel and I aim to be 
gardeners, who make it possible for butterflies to 
circle about and enjoy themselves without bad 


247 


The Simple Way. 

boys catching them and pulling their wings oflf. 
But you have grown astonishingly, since I first 
knew you, in spite of yourself. You used to find 
nothing better to do than kill time with a proces- 
sion of admirers. 'Now you have outgrown that. 
And you were dependent on your husband for 
your very bread. Now you are able to stand on 
your own feet, and are a self-supporting, useful 
member of society. Don’t you see, dear, that 
the lesson every soul must learn sooner or later, 
here or elsewhere, is to be able to stand alone ? 
Each of us, woman or man, must fulfill the pur- 
pose of creation, which is to grow toward perfec- 
tion, and we can’t do that by leaning on somebody 
else. Woman is a human being as is man, and is 
responsible for her own destiny. The responsi- 
bility can’t be put upon another.” 


248 


An Index Finger. 


CHAPTER XV. 

IT IS WELL WITH THE CHILD. 

Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle sugges- 
tion is fairer ; 

Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is 
rarer. — Richard Bealf. 

Mrs. Doring had a friend, a gentle, patient, 
heavily-burdened woman who lived her difficult 
life with the high heroism of a daughter of the 
gods. Though fragile as a flower she kept the 
wolf at bay for her little family, and nobody 
ever saw a cloud on her face or heard a com- 
plaint from her lips. Born and bred to the re- 
finements of life she met adversity as only the 
gently bred do meet it — by taking hold of 
whatever work was at hand, without question- 
ing whether it was what is miscalled menial or 
not. 

When her baby girl was born she begged Car- 
tice to name her, which she did, giving her the 
name of the little sister who had died when she 
herself was a child — Isabel. To her mother’s 
great delight she grew to resemble Mrs. Boring 
as though of her flesh and blood, and loved her 
in the same degree. Now she was nearly three 
years old, bright and winsome, with never a day’s 
illness in her record. 


It is Well with the Child. 


249 


But a fever came, and behind that stood the 
last enemy, who, however often routed, is sure 
to return sometime and win the battle. This 
was the time of his victory. In the night, when 
all was silent without, and solemn within, he 
came. Cartice had the baby in her arms in the 
last precious, awesome moments. The wasted 
little hand reached up and silently stroked her 
face, and the soft, dark eyes, unearthly large 
and earnest, looked at her with unutterable 
love. Something else, too, was in their speech- 
less depths — a message not easy to translate, but 
it brought comfort. Then, that mysterious thing, 
the breath, which connects us with the universal 
life principle, ceased ; the cold white veil dropped 
down, and little Isabel was dead. 

After holding the silent form close to her heart 
a moment, Cartice laid it gently on the bed, and 
the two mother hearts so sorely bereft stood silent 
but tearless beside it. 

Later, when it was ready for its bed in the 
bosom of the earth, and again together they 
looked down at its white silence, Cartice said : 

“ She shall know no evil thought ; she shall do 
no evil deed ; she shall tread no evil path. It is 
well with the child.” 

“Yes, in spite of my sore heart, it is well,” 
said the mother. “ I surrender her not to death, 
but to a larger life, and shall not mourn. hTo 


250 


An Index Finger. 

matter what comes, she is safe. My darling’s 
safe — safe and dead. Since her father’s death I 
have been troubled at times with fears for her fu- 
ture. I face the inevitable — a few months more 
here, and then — the end. For the two boys I 
have arranged. They will have homes and care, 
but it would have tried my courage to leave this 
one ewe lamb.” 

‘‘ 1 would have been a mother to Isabel had 
you gone first,” said Mrs. Doring. 

‘‘ 1 am sure of that ; but you, too, may not tarry 
here long. Why should we ever worry about the 
future ? In spite of all our planning and troubling 
all is managed by a higher hand. We have only 
to do the work of the hour, leaving what the 
next may bring to be met when it comes, and not 
in anticipation. The present alone concerns us. 
By living it aright the future takes care of itself. 
It is the thought for to-morrow that so often 
makes to-day gloomy. I distressed myself about 
my child’s future, yet, see, all is well with her.” 

I thank God for what I have learned of the 
mysterious event called death,” said Mrs. Doring. 
‘‘Yet there are people who ask what good can 
come of knowing such things. What good ? Is 
it nothing to know that the little image lying 
here is not our Isabel but her earthly investiture ; 
that she is not dead nor separated from us ; that 
her life is to go on from grace to grace, from 
strength to strength ? Is it nothing to know that 


It is Well with the Child. 


261 


Socrates, Plato, Swedenborg, Shakespeare, Emer- 
son, Hugo, Morse, Fulton, all who have given the 
world the light of genius, have never died, and 
that this baby is equal heir with them to a life of 
vaster opportunities and greater blessings ? ” 

“Others,” said Mrs. Benton, “wonder what 
good there is in the coming and going of so tiny 
a soul, who was here but for a day as it were. 
Yet her little life is as important in the divine 
plan as that of the greatest sage. She brought 
the gospel of pure love with her, and we are the 
better because of her brief visit to us — for it was 
but a pause on the great journey.” 

On the evening after the discarded visible part 
of the child had been put out of sight, as Mrs. 
Boring was returning home from her friend’s 
house, two elderly men on the horse-car were 
talking of life, and their verdict was that they 
were tired of it. 

One said it was an empty experience which he 
would not go through again for any considera- 
tion. The other said he had had a good time, 
had got as much pleasure out of life as any one, 
but that was all over now ; he was getting old and 
full of aches and pains, and found no fun in 
living any more. The jumping off place had to 
be reached some day, and that would put an end 
to it. 

His friend said that was the rub — the leap in 


252 


An Index Finger. 

the dark. For his part he was disgusted with life, 
but abhorred death. He saw no good in either one 
or the other, and was inclined to believe that we are 
all victims of a tremendous cheat. If he could see 
anything to look forward to beyond a damp bed 
in the ground he could go on all right, but no- 
body knew anything about it — not even those 
who earned their bread talking about it in pul- 
pits. They said they believed certain things, but 
they didn’t know any more than other folks. He 
wanted solid information. 

The other tossed his head to show his indiffer- 
ence to the subject. He said it was something 
he had never thought about at all in his good 
times, and now he guessed he wouldn’t bother 
with it for his few remaining days. 

Thus was the most important question that 
faces man disposed of by one whose opinion on any 
topic pertaining to commercial or political inter- 
ests would be received with respect by his fellow 
townsmen and have weight with them. But both 
he and his friend had lived to venerable years 
without ever learning what they themselves were. 
Of that knowledge, which includes all other 
knowledge, they were as ignorant as earth worms. 
They had acquired what is miscalled education ; 
had been factors in public affairs, and figures in 
social life, and yet never learned that they were 
not bodies to go to pieces some day like a broken 
machine, but spirits, with a life whose issues are 


It is Well with the Child. 


253 


spiritual and eternal, not material and perishable. 
To one, life had meant a chance to have a good 
time ; to the other emptiness, because he had had 
no good time. Neither dreamed that its mean- 
ing is in the unseen, not in the seen, — in what 
they had become, not what they possessed or en- 
joyed. They lived in dense spiritual darkness, 
yet knew it not, and they were but two out of 
millions in the same condition. 

Hearing their pathetic though unconscious con- 
fession of ignorance, Mrs. Doring wondered if 
little Isabel’s short, loving, trusting life was not 
more complete than theirs of long years full of 
impermanent and illusory importance. She 
wished she could tell them what she had learned 
of life and its meaning and future, but, alas ! she 
had already been stoned and knew the danger of 
letting her light shine before those who had not 
become as little children — receptive, willing to 
learn. 


254 


An Index Finger. 


CHAPTEE XVI. 


THE STOEY OF ONE EETUENED FEOM THE DEAD. 

“Is it wonderful that I should be immortal, as every one is 
immortal? I know it is wonderful, but my eye-sight is 
equally wonderful, and how I was conceived in my mother^s 
womb is equally wonderful /^ — Walt Whitman, 

Thought in the mind hath made us. 

What we are 

By thought was wrought and built. 

If a man^s mind 

Hath evil thoughts, pain comes on him as comes 
The wheel the ox behind. 

All that we are is what we thought and willed ; 

Our thoughts shape us and frame. 

If one endure 

In purity of thought joy follows him 
As his own shadow sure . — Sir Edwin Arnold, 


Mes. Doeing had read that the people of the 
unseen world, or other invisible intelligent be- 
ings, sometimes condescended to write on slates 
under certain conditions. As she now believed 
that Chrissalyn possessed all the psychic gifts, 
she bought a slate and used her most artful elo- 
quence to persuade her friend to experiment. 
The capricious creature consented after fishing 
up objections enough to make her acquiescence 
received with great gratitude. This was her in- 
nocent way of making her services valuable and 


story of One Eeturned from the Dead. 255 

herself important. But for love of her friend, 
and also no doubt for love of Prescott, who was 
the only person on the other side of silence that 
she cared to hear from, apparently, or at least 
was not afraid of, she finally consented. 

ISTot knowing the correct manner of procedure 
they could do no more than experiment blindly, 
till they learned something about it. They held 
the slate under the table till their arms were all 
tired out and got nothing. Then they laid it on 
the table, and becoming interested in talking, 
forgot all about it and their experiment, till they 
heard a soft, rapid scratching. 

Looking down simultaneously, they saw an in- 
credible thing. The tiny pencil, no bigger than 
a grain of rice, was writing, though no visible 
hand guided it, and this was its message : 

“ Each soul is its own redeemer^ here^ hereoyfier 
and forever P 

The two spectators looked at each other in 
awe-struck silence. From whom this came they 
knew not, for the one that wrote it wrote noth- 
ing more. But for their familiarity with com- 
munications from the silent majority they would 
have been sore afraid. As it was they were 
awed by this extraordinary evidence of the near- 
ness of unseen beings presumably like them- 
selves. 

Talking about it they sat there till the evening 
was nearly spent. At last, Chrissalyn idly laid 


256 


An Index Finger. 

her hand on the slate, and almost immediately it 
began to throb or vibrate curiously, like a living 
thing. Startled, she removed her hand, and in- 
stantly the throbbing ceased. Turning the slate 
over they found the under side written full in a 
feminine hand of exquisite daintiness, and signed 
with the name of one of our most eminent 
women, one who has been dead nearly a cen- 
tury. 

The message had not been written after the man- 
ner of the previous one, for there was no scratch- 
ing or sound of the movement of the pencil. In 
fact, as they soon discovered, the pencil was not 
there at all. The method, whatever it may have 
been, was instantaneous, like telegraphy. A few 
seconds of vibration in the slate and lo ! it was 
there. If thought could be photographed the 
process might be like this. It was as though 
some one had thought the message, and the 
mere act of thinking had made it visible on the 
slate. 

“ Chriss, you are the most wonderful being in 
the world,” said Cartice, reverently, and you 
don’t know it. You have all the occult gifts, yet 
value none of them.” 

The Butterfly flushed with gratification at the 
generous praise of her friend who usually praised 
or blamed with miserly care. Beyond the fact 
that they made her important in Cartice’s eyes 
she cared nothing for the mysteries revealed 


story of One Eeturned from the Dead. 257 

through her. Being a butterfly, she was not af- 
flicted with any particular craving for knowl- 
edge. The world and the things of the world 
satisfled her. 

This was what the slate contained : 

“To you, Cartice Hill Doring, I bring this 
message. Eemember it well, for I may never 
come again : Till the soil, and you will be pros- 
perous. Till what you have. Make more of 
your talents. Concentrate all your thoughts 
and devote more time to your special one. If 
you are really anxious to make a success of your- 
self, you must use every moment. You not only 
owe it to yourself, but to the whole world, and 
God, who has endowed you with this wonderful 
gift. You are a woman among a million. It is 
certainly a wonderful gift you possess, and it is 
sad that you have not already made more of it. 
So try now. Wait not for some one to open the 
way. Make your OAvn way. You can do it bet- 
ter than any one else. Work in order to be 
great ; then you can rest, and it will be so de- 
lightful to rest with sweet laurels.” 

Mrs. Doring read this aloud, astonished at its 
flattering import and amazed that so many words, 
all as legible as the clearest typography, could be 
put upon the tiny slate. The writing was a work 
of the most exquisite art. 

“ What does she mean by your special talent ? ” 
asked Chrissalyn. 


258 


An Index Finger. 

bit of my brain garden which I have 
scarcely cultivated at all, and would rather not 
name, for I never have been sure of my title to 
it. In my early dreams it figured conspicuously ; 
but of late years I have almost dropped it from 
my thoughts. The business of bread-winning 
pushes many a fair dream out of its sacred niche. 
In spite of the encouraging words of this mes- 
sage I doubt if I shall ever till that soil. I begin 
to feel too tired to make new departures. The 
torpor of indifference and weariness is creeping 
over me. The old spirit of action walks with a 
halting step, and turns its eyes longingly to the 
meadows of ease and indolence. I think I un- 
derstand how car-horses feel. They know per- 
fectly well that, whatever may happen to the 
rest of the world, for them there is only a steady, 
day-after-day pull till the end comes. Prescott 
used to say I wanted to eat my cake and have it 
too ; but he didn’t know how feeble and weary I 
often was.” 

One evening when they called their unseen 
friends new wonders were shown them — wonders 
which took place under laws beyond their pene- 
tration. The Butterfly wore a fresh white rose 
on her breast. When Prescott announced him- 
self, his first words were of its beauty and fra- 
grance. 

“ Can you see it ? ” Cartice asked. 

“ Certainly.” 


story of One Keturned from the Dead. 359 

^^And smell it?” 

‘‘ Of course. Give it to me. Butterfly ! Give 
it to me,” he wrote, with eager energy. 

Well, take it,” said Chrissalyn, smiling at the 
impossible request. 

“ I am in earnest. I really want it. Hold it 
in your hand directly in front of you, and see me 
take it.” 

Laughing at what she believed to be a bit of 
pleasantry, she took the rose from her breast, 
and held it between her thumb and finger, say- 
ing, in mimicry of the old-time heroine of novels. 

Please accept this token of my esteem.” 

Instantly, quicker than a flash, with a sudden- 
ness indescribable, it disappeared, vanished com- 
pletely, in the sight of both pairs of eyes. 
Whither ? Could vacant space swallow a tangi- 
ble object ? Impossible. Yet this impossibility 
was accomplished. 

The fact stunned them. Each looked in the 
face of the other, and clasped the other’s hand to 
make sure they were not dreaming. 

I should be frightened speechless if any one 
else than Prescott had done that,” said the But- 
terfly, pallid and trembling. 

“ Let us ask him about it,” said Cartice, who 
was shaken, too. 

With some reluctance, Chrissalyn asked Pres- 
cott how he had taken the rose. 

“By means of what some of your scientific 


260 An Index Finger. 

people call the Fourth Dimension of Space,” he 
replied. 

“ Can you explain it more clearly ? ” 

^‘No; I have no terms in which to make it 
plain to you. It is all natural enough, however, 
and comes under a law as yet not known to your 
world. Now wait a moment and I will bring 
you a flower by means of the same law.” 

Silent and expectant they sat for three or four 
minutes. Then, apparently out of the air above 
their heads, two large fresh, red roses fell on the 
table before them. Examination proved that 
they were real and not illusory. 

Where did you get them ? ” Cartice asked. 

I went what you would call a long distance 
for them, — about two hundred miles; but it is 
nothing to me, for I know no distance outside of 
my own thought.” 

Unsolicited, one evening Prescott volunteered 
to tell his two faithful friends some of his ex- 
periences since passing out of their sight. He 
wrote with a rapidity and energy even greater 
than in life, though he had ever a nervous, hasty 
manner of writing, which was his true form of 
expression. In conversation he had little ability. 
He consumed three evenings in the task he had 
set himself, and this was his story, which was ad- 
dressed to Cartice : 


There was the accident at the elevator It 


story of One Eeturned from the Dead. 261 

occurred in a few seconds of time, but I did not 
realize what was taking place. A thought that 
something was going wrong flashed through 
my mind, but it conveyed no sense of danger. I 
was like a spectator who sees disaster overtake 
another, yet has no clear idea what that disaster 
is. From this and what I have learned here, I 
am inclined to the belief that victims of accidents 
which result in sudden death have no painful ex- 
periences — do not even suffer from fear. 

“ As you know, I was killed instantly — that is 
pushed out of life as you understand life, without 
warning. When I awoke, or regained conscious- 
ness, on this side of death — which I believe was 
soon after the accident, though I am not sure on 
this point — I found myself groping blindly, 
staggering weakly in the dark and reaching 
about me with my hands to And something that 
would help me to a knowledge of my where- 
abouts. 

“ I was never distinguished for patience. Now 
I began to feel impatient and cross at finding 
myself in such an unaccountable situation. Then 
the darkness got thicker, more depressing, and at 
last terrible, until my spirit quailed before it, and 
the thought came to me that I was indeed, in a 
place and condition strange and fearful. 

“ Then I thought of you, Cartice, and of how 
devotedly I loved you. With that thought came 
light, such radiant, phenomenal, overpowering 


262 


An Index Finger. 

light that it dazzled me. I shuddered before its 
awful effulgence, and put my hands over my 
eyes that it might not blind me. My love for 
you seemed to fill all space and include all 
things. While enjoying it, drinking it in, float- 
ing in it, I moved on, for I was walking, — or so 
it seemed — until I met my dear old friend Wil- 
liam Bissell. 

“ That astonished me, for I instantly remem- 
bered that he had died five years before, and I 
had been one of those selected for the solemn 
honor of carrying his body to the grave. Was I 
dreaming ? 

^‘He came toward me smiling. I thought I 
had never seen him look so well, so handsome, 
so young or so benignant. He was ever the soul 
of kindness, not only ready but always anxious 
to serve others ; and he had a particular fondness 
for meeting friends at the railroad station when 
they came back to the city after an absence — es- 
pecially those who had no near kindred to wel- 
come them. 

‘‘ ‘ I’m glad to see you, Gordon,’ he said ; but 
I thought I saw something in his face more than 
the words implied, and a foreboding of unwel- 
come news came to me. 

^‘‘How is this, William?’ I asked. ^Am I 
dreaming ? I thought I helped to bury you five 
years ago.’ 

^‘He smiled significantly and said, ‘Has it 


Story of One Keturned from the Dead. 263 

not occurred to you that somebody may be ar- 
ranging to do the same service for you ? ’ 

“ ‘ What do you mean, William ? ’ I asked, 
calling upon my soul to sustain me against the 
shock of the reply. 

“ ^ Well, Gordon,’ he said, gently, kindness 
making his face shine like a lamp, ‘ tell me if a 
dead man’s arm has any bones in it ? ’ 

“ Instinctively I grasped my left arm with my 
right hand. Lo ! the hand passed through it. 
1^0 bones were there. 

“ Can you imagine one already dead fainting 
from fear? The sensation I experienced was 
more startling, more fearful than anything I had 
conceived of before. I sank down, down into im- 
measurable depths. 

“A feeling of shame at my cowardice took 
possession of me. Why was I afraid ? I had 
died, to be sure ; my condition was changed ; but 
the experience was something millions and mil- 
lions of other souls had undergone. Gentle, 
timid, delicate women had trodden that solemn 
path before me. Little children, too, had 
traveled it. Why should I, a man, vain of my 
strength and courage, be affrighted? A vast 
compassion for all humankind in this trying mo- 
ment welled up in my heart, and instantly I was 
lifted into light, and beheld about me loving 
and familiar faces, beautiful vistas, and heard 
melodious sounds. The loving thought I held 


264 An Index Finger. 

had borne me upward ; but I did not then know 
it. 

“ Many times I sank into a dark, bottomless 
void, and as often by some mysterious power 
rose into ineffable light. I encountered massive 
walls from time to time, before which my feet 
were stayed. Impassable and impregnable, they 
seemed to bar my way, I knew not why. Even- 
tually I learned that the sinking and the rising, 
and the barriers I met, were not external expe- 
riences, but all took place within my own con- 
sciousness, and were but the picturing or appear- 
ances of my inner condition. They were my own 
thoughts externalized, for thought is the only 
thing in the Universe, We think, therefore we 
are. Existence is thought. Man is thought 
made objective. Thought is the creative prin- 
ciple : it is creation. 

“ ‘ As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he,’ de- 
scribes life both here and in the visible form, if 
you but understand its true significance. Here 
every sensation is intensified a thousand times. 
I thrill with joy and the universe vibrates in har- 
monious response. I suffer, and it trembles in 
reciprocal anguish. And this is true of every 
soul in whatever part of the universe it may 
dwell; but here our capacity to feel is keener 
and greater than with you, and here we learn to 
understand. Every sensation is intensified, be- 
cause we enter into closer relations with the One 


story of One Keturned from the Dead. 265 

Life, the One Spirit that fills all space. Every- 
thing is within our consciousness, and outside of 
that there is nothing. Within us is all that ever 
was or shall be. 

‘‘For a time I was often wretched. The in- 
terests of earth attracted me, I thought of them 
wistfully, and wished I were in my old place 
doing the work in which I had found something 
akin to pleasure. The wish held me there, and I 
was miserable, because the old methods of action 
were lost to me. Often when you sat at your 
desk in the Register office I was near, suffering 
keen torment, because I could not make my pres- 
ence known. It took me a long time to see that 
we were not reall}^' separated. It was only the 
veil of your ignorance that shut me away from 
you. I was near you, but you did not know it, 
that was all. The veil that hides our world from 
yours is ignorance — a veil it is possible to lift. 

“ Still, I suffered until I found a means of en- 
lightening you. I saw the peculiar power the 
Butterfiy possesses, and endeavored to arouse in 
her a wish to investigate which would enable me 
to bridge the gulf between us — a gulf that ex- 
isted only in your thought. 

“ I caused her to see me in what she believed a 
dream, and I held a planchette that she might 
try to operate with it. To my unbounded de- 
light I was successful. I assure you that, although 
you were grateful for the knowledge the little 


266 


An Index Finger. 

tripod brought you, I was a thousand times more 
so, since to me it meant deliverance from dark- 
ness and misery. 

“ I could not rise into higher conditions — con- 
ditions being internal — until I had established 
communication with you. The moment you rec- 
ognized me and believed in me, darkness and 
discontent began to fall away from me. You 
made heaven for me on earth, inasmuch as I 
loved you, and that love has made heaven for 
me here — both heaven and hell being states of 
consciousness, though none the less real for all 
that. 

My burden was lifted, when you fully under- 
stood that I still lived. Not till then was I will- 
ing to accept my changed condition and seek 
knowledge in new paths. 

‘‘How delightful it was to discover that I 
had power within myself to create conditions ! 
Thoughts of love enveloped me in light, a light 
that had in it all beauty and all harmony. The 
character of my love for you changed. Desire 
for possession went out of it, and the wish to 
benefit and help you in every way, without re- 
gard to myself, took its place. I then learned 
that the more unselfish and universal our love, 
the deeper and fuller and sweeter our own being 
becomes. Love is the supreme power. Love is 
life. Love is light. Love is all there is, for love 
is God. 


Story of One Eeturned from the Dead. 267 

“This is a scientific truth and not merely a 
figure and phrase of religious philosophy. 

“ God is spirit and spirit is substance, the only 
substance in the universe. Men of science tell 
you that light is a mode of motion, and they 
speak truly, for it is the physical expression of 
pure spirit which is pure love. Spirit, which in- 
cludes all worlds and all being is in perpetual 
motion ; all that you see is but its different forms 
of manifestation. 

“Your sun is not your source of light; it is 
but a reflector or transmitter of the one supreme 
light to the worlds of its system. 

“ The more we love the more of God do we 
become and express. Oh ! if I could but tell you 
the joy that love brings. It can overcome all 
things. Where it dwells no evil can come ; and 
it enters wherever the door is left open to receive 
it. It is everywhere, but, if your consciousness is 
unaware of it, for you it has no existence. Only 
recognize it and it is yours. 

“ I passed my life in combat. I attacked evil, 
fought it ruthlessly, and believed I was doing 
good. Yet I was only making evil important. 
You would laugh at the teacher who fought chil- 
dren in order to make them wise, wouldn’t you ? 
Evil is only ignorance — otherwise spiritual dark- 
ness, and men and women are but children in 
knowledge. There is but one way to eradicate 
evil or ignorance, and that is to make more light. 


268 


An Index Finger. 

Open the understanding and let in the light. 
The darkness will flee before it. You remember 
Victor Hugo said: ‘ Pay schoolmasters and not 
soldiers.’ I see now that the only way to make 
men better is to awaken the God or good in 
them ; to put higher ideals before them, and not 
find fault with them because they don’t know all 
there is to know. 

Until I met you I lived a loveless life, there- 
fore a pessimistic one. My sympathy with hu- 
mankind had a narrow limit. A wrong aroused 
my wrath against the perpetrator of it, when it 
should have awakened my pity for the dark con- 
dition of his mind. 

“ I was conceited, intolerant, impatient, bellig- 
erent and often cruel. I went about with a 
lash in my hand, ready to administer upon all 
who did not live up to my standard. Now I see 
the simpler way of which we were long since told. 
It is to love our wayward brothers. When men 
learn that an injury done another injures them- 
selves far more than the other, they will cease to 
be unkind. 

As a matter of course I could not give up my 
old ways of thinking at once. I still found my- 
self quick to anger and ready to hate at the 
knowledge of offence or injury. These feelings 
instantly plunged me into darkness and the com- 
panionship of demons hideous to behold. 

‘‘ It is so in your world also. Page and hate 


Story of One Eeturned from the Dead. 269 

darken your mind, and bring into it hideous de- 
mons of thought but love fills you with light 
and beauty. Though your conception of love be 
crude and narrow, still the germ of divinity is in 
it, and it will brighten your way as far as its 
light extends. If you are faithful to truth as 
you see it, broader conceptions will come to you. 

I am not capable of instructing you on life 
here, only so far as it has revealed itself to me. 
Another may have different experiences and see 
a different outlook. Each soul is bounded by its 
own limitations, which expand as it advances. 
I am but a student, at the feet of wiser masters ; 
but I must give you what I see, not what they 
see. 

I believe the universe is electric ; that spirit 
operates through all nature by means of what 
you call electricity, in its different manifestations. 
The infinite mind, or what is called God, is the 
highest and most etherealized substance, includ- 
ing all else. It possesses the attributes of inher- 
ent motion and living power, and it has a centre 
like a great central sun, whose rays extend every- 
where through a system of transmitters. We live 
and move and have our being in it, just as all 
physical life owes its existence to the sun of its 
system. Electricity is the servant of this central 
and all-inclusive mind, whose every thought is 
transmitted through creation by means of elec- 
trical and etheric vibration. Every thought of 


270 


An Index Finger. 

yours creates a flash of electricity in your brain, 
which becomes a transmitter, for thought is elec- 
tric. Do not forget, however, that I give this 
only as what appears to me. 

“Life is an endless chain. To me now the 
mere fact of living after death seems a very small 
thing — but one little link in the endless chain. 
Dazzling heights rise before us as the soul goes 
on up the steeps of knowledge, where inexhausti- 
ble joys are laid up for us. Nothing counts but 
knowledge — knowledge of the law. Now I un- 
derstand that eternal life is to know God. It 
takes eternal life to know him. 

“ When you act from the outlook of love, you 
will never go wrong ; for truth is born of love. 

“Weave well the fabric of your thought, for 
everything is made from it. The law of causa- 
tion is inflexible. What you give you will get. 
Your thoughts will come back to you, bringing 
whatever freight of evil or good with which you 
sent them forth. Every time you think of 
a person you affect him for good or ill. 

“ If you sin, you will be the servant of sin. If 
you love good, you will be the instrument of good. 

“ ^ God is spirit, and they that worship Him 
must worship Him in spirit and in truth.’ 

“ The whole law is there. If you live the life 
of the spirit, you worship God because you ex- 
press truth. Each man on earth, as to his real 
self, is as true a spirit as he ever shall be. Only 


Story of One Eeturned from the Dead. 271 

in most cases he is ignorant of that tremendous 
fact. Understand this and live it, and you wor- 
ship God in spirit and in truth. 

“Here imagination is reality. It is also the 
creative realm in your world. I think and will, 
and my thought takes form. I think of one I 
love, and instantly I am with that one, no matter 
in how remote a part of the universe he or she 
may be. 

“ I say remote, because you think of distance 
as real. To the soul it does not exist and never 
has existed. It is but the continuity of the mind 
— a mode of thought. I speak of minutes, yet for 
us there is no time. That too is but a mode of 
thought. I must, however, use terms comprehen- 
sible to you. 

“Do I have the same form as in life ? Yes. 

“ Do I wear clothes ? I am clothed by my 
own thought, and so are you, but in a cruder 
way and by a slower process. 

“ Have I sight ? Yes, but it is not the same as 
physical sight. That was for the objective life ; 
this is for all that is related to my inner or true 
being and the true being of others. 

“ Have I the other senses as in the natural life ? 
Yes; in a fulness and perfection undreamedof 
before. I have them and others unknown to you 
all blended in one vast consciousness which puts 
me in touch with all that relates to me in a 
manner impossible to describe. 


272 


An Index Finger. 

‘‘The senses are but avenues through which 
your spirit takes cognizance of its environment. 
Here the spirit learns that it is its own environ- 
ment. 

“ Is communion between this world and yours 
beneficial to either one ? (Kemember there is but 
one world. The division is all in your thought.) 
Is not association with high-minded, well-in- 
structed persons always beneficial to you; and 
association with the evil-minded and untaught 
always hurtful ? 

“How are human beings to know they are 
deathless ; if the fact be not proved to them by 
ways within their comprehension ? Can there be 
anything but good in learning the law of your 
own being, by whatever means are open to you ? 
Not only is it beneficial, but it is the most im- 
portant branch of knowledge you can study. 

“Even spirit phenomena of the most rudi- 
mentary order are useful and necessary to the 
awakening of minds incapable of understanding 
higher methods of instruction. There is a primer 
stage in all learning. 

“The same law of attraction governs inter- 
course between us and you that reigns through- 
out nature. Like attracts like. You call to you 
the same order of mind from here that you at- 
tract there from among the living. (In reality 
there is neither a here nor a there, save in your 
mind. All is the same.) Your habitual quality 


story of One Eeturned from the Dead. 273 

of thought will attract its like. You will get 
what you give. Thus it happens that the foolish 
get foolish messages, and the earnest and intelli- 
gent generally receive sensible and instructive 
ones. 

“ As I divine the purposes of higher orders of 
beings here, they care relatively little for phe- 
nomena, and often lament much connected with 
phenomena ; but they do care a great deal for 
whatever agency can reach human minds and 
cause them to think, even for ever so few min- 
utes, of what is gentle, humane, kind, considerate, 
unselfish and affectional. These are the doors 
by which higher, gentler spirits reach human 
understandings, and by these means they exert a 
power far greater than is generally suspected. 

“For the production of ordinary phenomena a 
high grade of intelligence is not necessary. You 
do not need a professor to teach a child its 
alphabet. The better developed spirits find more 
subtle ways of imparting knowledge, and select 
more advanced minds to receive it than those 
that are satisfied with rudimentary phenomena. 
But that is necessary to begin with. 

“ Here as on earth — remember I use a term im- 
plying locality for your better understanding, 
though the spirit knows no locality — all who en- 
joy a larger light than the multitude are anxious 
to share it with those less favored. By helping 
others into it they receive more of it themselves. 


274 


An Index Finger, 

This is a law. Selfish, indeed, would be the soul 
who had a faith that supported him through every 
trial, and yet did not want others to have it. 
The heart’s desire of every prophet, genius and 
savior, is to make others see as he sees that which 
illumines his own soul. For this cause the no- 
blest and best have often perished — that is, given 
up their physical life — to perish in reality being 
impossible. Therefore, communion between spir- 
its still in the body and those out of it is one of 
the most important means of education known — 
the chief occupation of some who are here. 

“ Toying with phenomena for the sole purpose 
of gratifying curiosity — mere wonder-mongering 
— is always to be deprecated. 

“ Often, as in my case, the opportunity of com- 
municating with friends left behind sets a spirit 
free from his own unhappy thought-limitations. 
It lifts a burden from him. My desire to prove 
to you that I was not dead held me in bondage 
until I bridged the gulf. Intense love for one is 
always a kind of bondage. The perfect love we 
shall know, when the truth has freed us, is all- 
embracing, universal, like unto the love of God 
— it is the love of God. 

“When I read these words of Condillac I 
laughed at them : ‘ Though we should soar into 

the heavens, though we should sink into the 
abyss, we never go out of ourselves ; it is always 
our thought that we perceive.’ 


story of One Keturned from the Dead. 275 

‘^Now I can affirm their truth. We can never 
run away from ourselves. We take our own 
world with us wherever we go, for it is made of 
our thought — ‘ it is always our own thought that 
we perceive.’ We are our own thought — and the 
smallest insect or strongest and fiercest beast or 
greatest genius is no less and no more. 

‘‘ In the life of the world I never knew happi- 
ness. Behind a cynical and reserved exterior I 
masked a restless, suffering spirit. Creation ap- 
peared a grim tragedy. This was because my 
inner eyes were closed, and I took the distorted 
shadow for the reality. I was looking at a fan- 
tastic mirror and saw only its exaggerated re- 
fiections. I ridiculed the idea of any one’s being 
happy in such a world. Now I know that man 
is destined to be happy, but his happiness is of 
the spirit, and can only come with spiritual de- 
velopment, when he knows that he is spirit, lives 
the life of the spirit, and so becomes free from 
the bonds of ignorance. This is what is meant 
by the truth making us free. Ignorance is the 
only evil there is — mere blindness to the light, 
though the light is always shining. When you 
know the truth, you become the truth, and are 
out of the darkness of ignorance, therefore free. 
This is, I am told, the ultimate destiny of the 
whole human race. 

“ Kemember that God never punishes any one. 
He only teaches. This, the children of the world 


276 


An Index Finger. 

have to learn. They, too, must eliminate pun- 
ishment from their methods of dealing with the 
wrongdoers, otherwise the ignorant. 

A wise friend told me to cease my self-ques- 
tioning and striving, and let knowledge find me. 
He said we have only to let good come to us 
and it will fill us. To do this we must make 
ourselves receptive — negative — and the spirit, the 
one spirit, which includes all wisdom, all love, 
all life, being positive, will fiow into us. He 
said our continual striving and struggling made 
us positive, and therefore unreceptive. This en- 
abled me to see a new meaning in the question, 
^ Who, by searching can find out God ? ’ 

The law is to be still — ready to receive — and 
let him enter. 

When I did this I emerged from suffering and 
darkness, and for the first time in the memory of 
my conscious existence felt my spirit at rest.” 


Uprooting a Human Tree. 


277 


CHAPTEE XVII. 


UPROOTING A HUMAN TREE. 

A man said unto his angel : 

“ My spirits are fallen through, 

And I cannot carry this battle : 

O brother, what shall I do ? ” 

Then said to the man his angel : 

“Thou wavering, foolish soul. 

Back to the ranks ! What matter 
To win or lose the whole. 

— Louise Imogen Guiney, 

The Joys, otherwise the Hanleys, fell into fi- 
nancial trouble. Burton Hanley was forced to 
make an assignment for the benefit of his credi- 
tors. He had enough to pay every dollar he 
owed, and he turned it all over with aii out-of- 
date honesty that scandalized the community. 

The envious found a certain sweetness in this 
neAvs. JSTodding their heads knowingly, they said 
they guessed the Joys were about done with Joy. 
But this did not seem to be the case. On the 
evening following the assignment they were at 
an entertainment in the house of a friend and 
were the blithest guests, as they generally were. 

The knowing ones said this light-heartedness 
was put on — a mere bluff to make others think 
they did not value money. As a matter of fact 


278 An Index Finger. 

it was not. They had simply forgotten all about 
their financial troubles in the engrossing pleas- 
ures of the hour. This enviable faculty for en- 
joying the present moment, unclouded by past 
or future shadows was largely responsible for 
their joyous lives. For them there was only 
the now. They never reasoned or philosophized 
about it, but just lived that way by nature. 

‘‘ Wait till they have a hand-to-hand fight with 
Poverty,” said the knowing ones, who are often 
the cruel ones. ‘^Wait till he writes his name 
on their clothes, their faces and their thoughts. 
Wait till he walks with them, sits with them, 
eats with them and never leaves them for an in- 
stant! Wait!” They said this in a way that 
made their hearers understand the waiting would 
not require patience. 

Kinder ones sighed and said the Joys, poor 
souls, laughed at poverty, because they didn’t 
know its horrors. But they were destined to 
better acquaintance with the dreaded spectre. 
Meantime they went their way rejoicing that 
affairs were no worse. 

Lilia was so full of what she had learned 
through Chrissalyn of the deathlessness of her- 
self and fellow beings, that she bubbled over like 
a kettle filled to the brim and boiling. What 
was loss of money and a contest with poverty 
to one who knew that Death was dead ? This 
knowledge was of a character too fermentative to 


Uprooting a Human Tree. 2Y9 

remain bottled up within her. She went around 
talking of it, unmindful of the injunction not to 
cast pearls before swine. An enthusiast by na- 
ture, and endowed with power to carry convic- 
tion to an extraordinary degree, it is strange she 
did not succeed in the propaganda ; but she did 
not. On the contrary the swine turned upon her 
and she was rended, like other prophets who have 
been guilty of similar indiscretion. 

To each other some of the swine said : “ Poor 
Lilia Joy. Burton’s failure has upset her after 
all. Talks about nothing but souls. Thinks she 
has had proof of dead folks being alive. It’s too 
bad.” 

But Lilia refused to be cast down. After a 
time she gave up the hopeless work of letting 
her light shine too far, it is true, but she kept 
her strangely happy face and joyous ways — kept 
them through many a dark day, on many a stony 
road — kept them to the end. She met all things, 
troublous or pleasant, as Socrates said he wished 
to meet the gods — with a bright face. 

This never-changing brightness made an impres- 
sion on everybody who beheld it. One might fee- 
bly describe it by saying that her soul seemed too 
large and too happy for its mortal measure, and 
was always running over. 

Perhaps the olRce boy of the Register hit it 
most felicitously, when he thus described her to 
Cartice, who had been out, when she called one 


280 An Index Finger. 

day : It was that lady who comes often and 

always looks as if she had just heard good news.” 
Mrs. Doring recognized the word photograph of 
Lilia Joy at once. 

There are times in the lives of all when new 
departures are imminent, when a change is im- 
pending and obligatory, yet is slow to define it- 
self. There is the feeling that other paths must 
be entered, but to the outer eye they are unblazed. 

Such a time had come to Cartice Doring. She 
had long felt its approach, but knew not the end 
to which it pointed. Something more than im- 
pulse stirred within her. The Spirit of Destiny 
itself spoke the inexorable command to move on. 

Whither? ‘^Move on.” This was the only 
answer, for Destiny has a way of making us 
choose our roads, though for the most part the 
various whips within and without which play 
upon us seem to make the matter of choice 
largely a thing of name only. We do what we 
can rather than what we wish. This should give 
us a grain of comfort on dark days by relieving 
us of regrets, and settling us in the conviction 
that we are no more and no less than that which 
we must be. Even though our own nature be 
the compelling and directing force, we are none 
the less servants to its dicta. Call that which 
rules us by whatever name we choose, how su- 
preme is the sway ! 


Uprooting a Human Tree. 281 

Looking over the situation Mrs. Boring summed 
up the reasons for making a change. First, she 
was not doing her best ; she was letting down a 
little all the time, and that clearly was degener- 
ation. Pleasure in her work had gone and per- 
functory performance taken its place. She was 
weary of the miserable business of writing to 
please the many-headed multitude, which the late 
Dr. Charles Mackay was fond of describing as 
“fool of a public; pig of a public,” while her 
honest convictions had to be kept locked up in 
her soul and labeled, “ Dangerous,” like a can of 
dynamite. 

In Prescott’s day she was free to say what she 
thought ought to be said. How, she was fre- 
quently brought to book for utterances far too 
bold, in the opinion of the proprietors of the pa- 
per, who insisted on a close connection between 
the counting room and editorial desk. As a re- 
sult of constantly trimming to suit the fitful 
breezes of public taste, the Register was losing 
ground. Strange law that governs the minds of 
men! Kowtow to them and they despise and 
neglect you. Defy them and they respect and 
court you. 

Ho ; she must not stay with the Register, In- 
ternal wranglings were shaking it. An eruption 
might take place any day, changing the whole 
face of its affairs. 

For her salvation, intellectual and physical, she 


282 


An Index Finger. 

must go. Yet habit, friendship and a horrible 
dread of facing new difficulties put up a plea for 
her to stay. No ; she must go, no matter what 
she had to meet, loneliness, humiliation, disap- 
pointment, defeat, want, death itself. MUST. 
Something told her that in a way that brooked 
no contradiction. 

But she was so tired — more tired than any one 
dreamed, in spite of her almost jaunty cheerful- 
ness. 

And what had she as financial armor for the 
new battle about to begin ? Grimly she smiled 
as she cast her mind’s eye in that direction. A 
few dollars only. ‘‘Verily industry and talent 
combined are richly rewarded,” she said. Yet 
she had made reputation; she was considered 
successful. However, many a slave to the pen 
knows that reputation and money do not always 
go hand in hand. Besides this imposing capital 
she had her experience and the knowledge of her 
own powers which it had brought. Valuable cap- 
ital, to be sure. Yet experience brings us an- 
other gift which helps to weaken us by counter- 
acting our faith in ourselves, and that is a knowl- 
edge of the difficulties, a bold outlining of the 
greatness of the task. 

What else had she wherewith to gird herself 
for that trip into the unexplored, so sure to in- 
volve racks of many kinds ? 

In the teeth of a wish to find a quiet place and 


Uprooting a Human Tree. 283 

there lie down, closing her eyes to the world for- 
ever, — in the face of a weariness untellable, she 
knew that within the hidden depths of herself, 
under all the scars, disappointments and fatigues 
was courage. 

What other prop had she ? A strong, an in- 
vincible one — the knowledge that eternal being 
and her being were one and the same, and that 
she was never alone or dependent on herself, 
however much this seemed to be the case ; that 
living, loving souls, angels, if you choose, had 
charge concerning her and that the everlasting 
arms of universal love were ever about her. 

She would go to Hew York, a field of many 
gleaners, truly, but big, and therefore of promise. 
The needle of her destiny pointed in that direc- 
tion. There was its magnet. With the decision 
came peace. 

Yet day after day she lingered, telling no one 
of her decision, and feeling that she belonged 
neither to the place she was in nor to that for 
which she was bound — a curious, detached sort 
of existence such as had ever been hers, when she 
must tear herself from an accustomed place and 
seek an unaccustomed one. The work of uproot- 
ing herself involved pains and groans like those 
of a great tree, when torn up by a storm. 

In love of locality Cartice was a tree, and fre- 
quently said so. Her pleasure would have been 
to live always in one place, taking deeper root 


284 


An Index Finger. 

every day, and loving the soil that sustained her. 
Doubtless because this was her nature, fate de- 
creed that she should have no chance to take 
deep root anywhere, for her own good. 

Those days of inward groaning and tree-like 
clinging to a spot of which she had long been 
weary, reminded her of other days, now years in 
the past, when she had uprooted herself from the 
only peaceful bit of life she had known, to go 
forth and marry Louis Doring and become sister 
to misery. 

Then she had swayed and clung and groaned 
day after day, only to yield at last to the force 
that ruled her destiny, and she knew she must do 
the same now. 

A time came, however, when the human tree 
lay prone, its uprooting an accomplished fact. 
Its roots, bared to the sun and wind, trembled a 
little, but the groaning was over. 

Now there was nothing to do but tell Chriss- 
alyn and go. 

The Butterfly paled as she heard the decision. 

“ I have known this for a long time,” she said, 
“ long before you knew it yourself, but I would 
not speak of it, lest you might be guided by what 
I said. I learned it by the inside way that things 
are told me so often. It’s hard for me to have 
you go ; but I understand, and believe it’s for the 
best. Does any one else know ? ” 

‘^Not yet. I don’t tell others, even good 


Uprooting a Human Tree. 285 

friends, because they will ask questions about my 
plans and dig my very heart out of my body to 
find out all about Avhat I am going to do. In 
the first place I don’t know. In the second I 
should not care to tell if I did. Telling spoils 
everything for me. Why do people make inquisi- 
tions of themselves and torture others merely to 
gratify an idle curiosity ? ” 

“Cartice” — Chrissalyn spoke a little cau- 
tiously — “in the face of what you have been say- 
ing, and knowing that your temper is not seraphic, 
I will say I wish I knew for sure that you would 
have something to hold on to, when you get to 
New York.” 

“ Chriss, dear, I must find something, that’s all 
there is to it. Must. That word is a magnet 
drawing whatever it demands. Whenever we 
MUST have something, we get it.” 

Contact with the industrial problem had let a 
few practical ideas into the Butterfly’s once airy 
head. Therefore she was concerned about the 
financial future of her friend. Still, she did not 
comprehend the situation in its tragic entirety. 
A prop of some kind had ever been near for her 
to lean on in dire extremity. Fate provides 
props for those who are not strong enough to 
stand alone ; but the great souls are placed where 
there is nothing to lean against, that they may 
both keep and show their strength. They suffer ; 
their hearts often bleed ; but they stand. 


286 An Index Finger. 

Then, too, Chrissalyn looked upon her friend as 
a person of such incomparable ability, that she 
could overcome any obstacle, however formid- 
able. How I shall miss you, Cartice,” she said, 
huskily. “ How lonely and bereft I shall be.” 

‘‘You have your admirers, your moths.” 

“ My moths ? Yes, my miserable moths,” said 
Chrissalyn, contemptuously. “ They are about 
as much comfort to me, as so many of the gen- 
uine insects. I am a proof of evolution. I have 
evolved too far to find them interesting. But 
where are the men ? Do they not exist outside 
of novels any more ? For a long time I cherished 
dreams of meeting one whom I could love without 
being ashamed of myself, but I am giving them 
up. Sometimes, where I hear of friends marry- 
ing, it all sounds so fine that I am quite envious 
until I see their husbands, and then I am better 
contented.” 

For Oartice the pain of parting from her friend 
was intensified by the knowledge that it meant 
loss of opportunity to talk with her beloved un- 
seen people. The Butterfly was a telephone to 
the other world whose like might never be met 
again. 

They spent the last evening together. Their 
invisible friends understood what was determined 
upon, without any telling. Prescott was asked 
if he had any suggestions to make in regard to 
Cartice’s plans. 


Uprooting a Human Tree. 287 

It is not for us to direct you,” he said. “ You 
must steer your own bark. That is the business 
of life. The field is wide, and you have your 
place therein and will find it. Don’t be dis- 
couraged. We shall be often with you, and shall 
keep an eye on you.” 

The evening was one long to be remembered 
by the two who were so soon to be separated, 
tinged as it was with the melancholy that colors 
all last occasions. 

The final glimpse Cartice had of the place that 
had been to her a city of sorrow as well as of 
light, showed her the Butterfiy waving a loving 
and tearful adieu. Dear Butterfiy ! Was there 
ever so charming a combination of vanity, love 
of pleasure, earthly prettiness and goddess-like 
ability to do wondrous things ? 

Cartice settled herself for her journey, feeling 
somewhat as a soul might who had just issued 
from one very difficult and wretched incarnation 
and knew that in a few hours it must begin an- 
other, which in all probability would prove more 
difficult and more wretched. 

It takes courage to face the mouths of cannon ; 
yet that, though horrible, lasts not long. But 
the woman who, alone and unknown, goes into 
the mixed and frightful mass of humankind rep- 
resented by a great city, to seek a chance to earn 
honest bread, displaj^s a courage besides which 
that of the bravest soldier must lose a little of its 


288 


An Index Finger. 

luster. And any one who makes her hard road 
harder, builds for himself a wall which will not 
be easy to scale ; he is but lengthening the period 
of his own spiritual evolution. 

The train rolled on, its wheels beating a steady 
rhythm like the feet of flying horses, their vi- 
brations striking the sick heart of the weary 
woman inside, and making it quake with terror. 

She had kept a smiling face before the Butter- 
fly clear to the last ; but now that she was alone 
— at least unknown to her fellow travelers, hence 
secure from intrusion, her courage evaporated, 
and she curled up on her sofa, a mere lump of 
suffering. 

As the telegraph posts flew by she pictured 
herself taken out, tied to one and shot dead by 
balls from many rifles, and earnestly wished she 
could exchange her present situation for such 
brief pain. 

Is this world hell ? The query had come to 
her before, and now it challenged her boldly. 
Whose happiness or safety was secure for the 
morrow ? 

Of what was ahead of her she scarcely dared 
to think. Glimpses of its grim possibilities 
flashed across her mind, making her mobile face 
set and stern. A frightened light came into her 
eyes and a strange expression fluttered around 
her mouth. In imagination she was seeing the 
two rivers that flow on either side of New York, 


Uprooting a Human Tree. 289 

and was thinking of what they had done and 
Avere yet to do for those who found the burden 
of life greater than they could bear. 

In that moment she felt a cool, soft breeze 
about her, and with it came the thought that she 
could never seek solace there- — she who knew that 
life reached out an unbroken line, beyond the 
sight and even the dreams of men. Hot for her 
ran rivers, whose floAving waters lapped and 
swirled and wooed world-Aveary hearts. Did she 
believe that silence, nothingness, insensate dust 
alone were at the end of our journey here, there ; 
blessed be the rivers ! But she kneAV — ^knew be- 
yond doubt that no river can extinguish the spark 
of divinity Ave call consciousness. 

After all, why should she fear? Ho one 
stands absolutely alone. There is no separate- 
ness, no differentiation. Back of each, eternal 
Being mirrors itself forever ; and that which we 
see is as nothing compared to that which we see 
not. The cloud of witnesses more than wit- 
nesses. Influences invisible, but poAverful, are 
ever working for us. Threads hidden from 
bodily eyes connect us with all life beheld and 
unbeheld. 

Her OAvn people Avere in touch with her, loved 
and inspired her, no matter in what part of the 
universe they dwelt, and nothing could divide 
her from them. 

Eemembering this, the shadow of fear passed, 


290 An Index Finger. 

and she prepared to meet her destiny with cour- 
age. 

New knowledge had brought new responsi- 
bility. Life was not to be haggled through as a 
hateful bargain ; it must be lived in the highest 
sense ; its lessons faithfully learned and character 
constructed by the master architect, experience. 
One must do one’s best, in the teeth of the 
storm, in the front of the battle. We must al- 
ways be able to look our souls in the face with- 
out shame. 

Suppose her efforts and even her life ended in 
failure at last ! What matter ? To succeed in 
the world’s opinion is often to fail in the exact- 
ing eye of conscience. Perhaps the only perma- 
nent success is failure. The joy, the glory and 
the reward are in the doing, not in the result. 
The fateful question for all of us will be, not. 

Hast thou won ? ” but Hast thou striven ? ” 

The things we call pain and pleasure she knew 
to be illusions, mere thought pictures painted on 
the canvas of our consciousness, by ignorance — 
ignorance of our true being and the true purpose 
of existence. 

So she said, No matter what comes, since I 
know that out of all the pain and humiliation the 
world can put upon me, out of the shadow of 
death, I shall rise and pass on to my eternal un- 
folding. 

For me there is no want. Have I not bread 


Uprooting a Human Tree. 291 

to eat that thousands of others as yet have not, 
because they will not receive it ? 

For me and for the whole human race there 
is but one thing needful, and that is the knowl- 
edge that eternal being is within, around, about 
us and we are it.” 

Spiritualism? The ignorant will say with a 
sneer. Yes, in the highest, broadest and deepest 
sense. It sustained this lonely woman on her 
journey to a great city to work out her life’s 
problem, and after she was there it gave her 
patience and confidence. It made it impossible 
for her to seek the river, and enabled her to wear 
a cheerful face and carry a hopeful heart, while 
her little store of money dribbled down to a few 
lonesome dollars. 

Without this rock of faith those long, lonely 
days of seeking and waiting would have been 
unbearable. Sometimes she sat in the public 
squares looking compassionately upon the pitiful 
people about her. The homeless, the hopeless, 
the hungry, the despairing, the weary, the ail- 
ing, the suffering, the broken-hearted were there, 
some in rags and some in fine garments. Within 
each one ached and ate the canker of a wretch- 
edness they tried to hide from happier souls who 
passed them by. 

Cartice read their misery by the light of past 
suffering, and yearned to say to them : ‘‘Awake ! 
You are in a dark dream. The conditions that 


292 


An Index Finger. 


trouble you are unreal — mere illusions, and touch 
not your true life at all. You are gods every 
one, but unaware of your divinity. One day the 
dream shall pass and you shall know this.” 

But the etiquette of civilization forbade it. 
We see our fellow beings suffer and perish from 
some wound in the soul, yet approach them not. 
All she could do was to send out to them, through 
the silent waves of thought, messages of hope and 
good cheer. 

In those days of striving and waiting and 
studying the swarming life about her Mrs. Bor- 
ing turned over the economic problem in her 
mind many times. Curious industrial system, 
that condemns idleness and yet makes the search 
for employment bitter and hard ! 

The two arts which held her chance were 
hedged about in such a way that the most she 
could do was to shoot an arrow from afar and 
trust that it might stick. Nor was she unaware 
that many other arrows were flying from other 
archers, each one diminishing the chances of the 
rest. 


Bohemia’s Highways and Byways. 293 


CHAPTEK XVni. 
bohemia’s highways and byways. 

** Work thou for pleasure ; paint or sing or carve 
The thing thou lovest, though the body starve. 

Who works for glory misses oft the goal ; 

Who works for money coins his very soul. 

Work for the work^s sake, then, and it may be 
That these things shall be added unto thee.” 

— Kenyon Cox. 

One day a miracle happened, — at least Cartice 
Coring considered it a miracle. She was swing- 
ing to a strap in one of the always dirty and 
frequently crowded cars of the elevated railroad 
— when, as the train went ricketing round a 
curve she was flung against a man behind her 
with such force that both well-nigh fell to the 
floor. 

Before she could apologize, a familiar voice 
said: 

“Mrs. Coring! I’m delighted to have been 
knocked down, since it proves to be the means 
of meeting you.” 

He was a newspaper man whose occasional 
visits to the Register she had greatly enjoyed ; 
and his was the first familiar face that she had 
encountered since she had turned her back on 
former scenes. 

“Why, Mr. Farnsworth, I’m glad enough to 


294 


An Index Finger. 

cry,” she blurted out, and came near proving the 
truth of her assertion. 

When he learned that she had come to New 
York to seek her fortune, he said: 

‘‘ I can put a spoke in your wheel, for I came 
here with that intention myself, and have my 
tent permanently pitched. A pen and pencil 
like yours need never be idle. Come to our pub- 
lishing house to-morrow at two o’clock — here’s a 
card — and we will lay the corner-stone of your 
future greatness.” 

Cartice was wakeful far into the night nursing 
her gratitude, and thinking over the miracle. 
Farnsworth had been a lifelong friend to Pres- 
cott. Perhaps Prescott brought about their 
meeting, and put it into Farnsworth’s head to 
employ her. Who knows what the people we 
call dead may not be able to do ? Perhaps they 
give us many of our thoughts, purposes and 
plans. Does not every event in our lives, how- 
ever trivial and insignificant, hang upon thou- 
sands of preceding events, great and small ? 

And when it comes to a question of what a 
soul can or cannot do, embodied or disembodied, 
who can answer ? 

What is the soul of man ? Before assigning it 
limitations it were well to know its composition. 
It is assumed to be the “ immortal unit which 
represents personality ” ; but here and there have 
been men and women who demonstrated a mar- 


Bohemia’s Highways and Byways. 295 

velous complexity of ego, their visible body seem- 
ing a mere tenement for a variety of distinct per- 
sonalities, all linked together by some mysterious 
chain of kinship, though not all resembling each 
other, and not always dwelling in harmony. 

Stevenson makes Dr. Jekyll say, hazard a 
guess that man will be ultimately known for a 
mere polity of multifarious, incongruous and in- 
dependent denizens.” 

Are we not all conscious of a Mr. Hyde within 
us who breaks out at times and sadly stains the 
good record of Dr. Jekyll ? May we not be har- 
boring many Jekylls and Hydes, each differing 
in degrees of goodness and badness ? 

Thinking on this, Cartice remembered the an- 
swer of the nameless wise one to the question, 
“ What is the soul ? ” — an answer that startled 
her, for it opened a vista so vast, since it meant 
that the soul is God, or absolute being revealing 
himself or itself. 

This being granted, its personalities are beyond 
computation. Its Jekylls and Hydes and its mil- 
lions which are neither Jekylls nor Hydes are 
past number. 

In a sea of wonder like this is it worth while 
to ponder the causes of any miracle great or tiny ? 

The next day Cartice found herself installed at 
a desk in Farnsworth’s publishing house, pen and 
pencil both flying. The wished-for foothold was 
found, and she stood upon it, busy and grateful. 


296 


An Index Finger. 

After becoming acquainted with a number of 
the metropolitan people of the pen, she was 
obliged to give up many of her illusions regard- 
ing them. Some of whom she had formed a flat- 
tering opinion, on acquaintance fell far below the 
mark. Others who flew high on paper, kept 
shockingly near the ground off paper. Some who 
had been successful were struggling frantically 
against a turn of the tide. But that which aston- 
ished and pained her most was their lack of en- 
nobling ideals. Their pens were ever pointed 
toward the market, their talk was of prices, not 
ideas, and the shrine at which they worshipped 
was the ninth letter of the alphabet. 

For the most part they were so busy writing 
and talking of what they had written and in- 
tended to write, that none read another’s produc- 
tion. Like swimmers in a turbulent sea, their 
energies were wholly given to the business of 
keeping afloat. In slavery to the baker and 
meat-seller, they expressed only such sentiments 
as they believed acceptable to the commonplace 
majority, — otherwise marketable products. They 
trimmed, tempered, pruned, whittled and cut 
their literary wares, to make them suit what they 
supposed to be the public’s wants, without regard 
to conscience or convictions. 

Did all angle in these shallow waters ? No ! 
Here and there a worthy few had boldly refused 
to write down to the low level of average intelli- 


Bohemia’s Highways and Byways. 297 

gence. They had penned their honest thought, 
and by so doing had brought a respectable por- 
tion of the public up to their plane, fame and 
money sometimes coming with it. Consciously 
or unconsciously they had operated a great law 
of the universe, that of giving one’s best to get 
the best. 

In other words they had faithfully followed 
their highest ideals, in the face of possible ruin, 
under the pressure of poverty and the frowns of 
public taste and opinion. To do this is to live a 
great principle, to set the soul free. Whoever 
does this shall reap the reward of principle ; he 
shall find his measure full. The multitude whose 
slavish bonds of ignorance he defies will cringe 
and fawn at his feet and pour its gold into his 
coffers. 

The ideal is the real. If it be high its faithful 
followers are lifted up. 

Workers who spend their lives in throwing sops 
to the mass of mediocre minds pay the inevitable 
penalty at last. They fall into the contempt of 
the very monster whose favor they have courted, 
who at heart respects only its masters, not its 
slaves. 

One day Bardell, a struggler whose weapon 
was the pencil and whose field was the dreadful 
one of the commonest newspaper art, stopped at 
Mrs. Boring’s desk, as he often did, for a word or 


298 


An Index Finger. 

two. She regarded him as an almost hopeless 
bungler, but liked his unassertive, dreamy per- 
sonality. Some of his drawings were altogether 
abominable, and in none of them did he seem to 
have the slightest pride. 

He was undersized and queer-looking, with a 
big square head, a thin stooping body, large hol- 
low eyes, and a face that suggested a worn-out 
spirit. 

Ordinarily he had almost no words about any- 
thing, yet seemed to derive a silent pleasure from 
hanging near Cartice’s desk a few moments, when 
he brought his drawings to the “ art man ” of the 
house. His self-eflfacement was so refreshing to 
Cartice after much contact with pushing ninth- 
letter people, that she showed him marked civil- 
ity. 

To-day he seated himself and asked her opinion 
of the drawing he carried. As usual, his manner 
was without animation, yet she instantly felt that 
he expected a word of praise. This was extraor- 
dinary on his part, as he invariably gave out the 
wordless impression that he continued to live 
more from habit than anything else, but found 
life wholly without interest. 

The picture, which was destined to illustrate a 
jingling little rhyme and visualize it for such 
readers as have no imagination, represented a 
short-skirted maid standing by a rustic fountain, 
pitcher in hand, Cartice gave a little cry of de- 


Bohemia’s Highways and Byways. 299 

light, as her eyes fell upon it, though a second 
glance showed her that something was wrong 
with it, but what, she could not for a moment 
say. Presently the blunder stood revealed, and 
w’as gross enough to mortify Bardell for all time, 
if she pointed it out. Yet it would be his ruin to 
let him go to the “ art man,” with the drawing 
as it was. So she said, “ It is charmingly done ; 
but there is a trifling error in it. The girl’s feet 
are put on wrong. Left and right have changed 
places.” 

The pale, hollow face of the artist flushed red 
with shame. “ I’m most grateful to you, Mrs. 
Doring,” he said, as his astonished eyes saw the 
hitherto unnoticed blunder. “Had I gone to 
Buskirk with that it would have been the end of 
me in this shop. As it is he almost withers me 
with his contempt. It doesn’t stop at my work, 
either, but includes all there is of me, physically, 
mentally, artistically, and financially. I sustain 
myself under it with the reflection that, however 
profound his contempt for me, it is outdone again 
and again by my contempt for myself.” 

Cartice understood well the awful wounds to 
self-respect men and women are daily forced to 
endure for the sake of a chance to earn a liveli- 
hood. She looked at Bardell with a vast, word- 
less sympathy shining in her eyes, thinking of 
the courage necessary in the tragedy of life, as 
displayed by the man before her and tens of 


300 An Index Finger. 

thousands of others. He understood and went 
on : 

I don’t endure it for the mere sake of living, 
I assure you. The experience called life, as I 
know it, isn’t worth it. But when I was younger 
and considerably more of a fool than I am now, 
I married, as a kind of business or because others 
did, or I don’t really know why. Anyhow, I 
have a little family now, and I have to put up 
with everything, no matter what, in order to 
support them. Besides, I have other ties that 
hold me to life, and those are my ideals.” 

Mrs. Doring looked up with a start. ‘‘ Tell me 
about them,” she said. 

Ever since I can remember they have been 
with me, and are my true life,” he said. ‘‘ They 
exist in the shape of simple rustic scenes, old-time 
well-sweeps, tumble-down stone-houses and walls 
and things of that sort, with people in them who 
are a part of their history. They come into my 
mind and insist upon being painted. They are 
not satisfied to be put in black and white. That 
is crucifixion for them and for me, too. They 
beg, entreat and command me to put them in 
color. 

“This girl at the old-time fountain in this 
drawing is one of them. That’s the reason the 
picture isn’t hard and lifeless like most of the 
truck I bring in here. The blunder of putting 
her feet on wrong occurred, because I drew the 


Bohemia’s Highways and Byways. 301 

feet last, and about that time she found out that 
she wasn’t being painted, but was to be a sacri- 
fice to the terrible monster of newspaper illustra- 
tion, which is an easy way to please children and 
uneducated people, and an offence to those of a 
higher order of intelligence. In rage at the use 
I was going to make of her she jumped up and 
down so fast that her feet got tangled in my 
mind. I saw her, you understand. She was real 
— I saw her — not in fiesh and blood, but imagi- 
nation, which to me is a kind of higher reality.” 

Astonished and delighted to find one worker 
with ideals above mere keeping afioat, Cartice 
asked him if he worked on his ideals or merely 
dreamed of them. 

“ I reach after them all I can, ” he said, handi- 
capped as I am. I give my heart to them, though 
I haven’t been able to give them much of my 
time. But I have not kicked them out of my 
way, or murdered them to sell their fiesh at the 
nearest market, as many of my associates have 
done. Hor have I given up the belief that, if we 
work on our ideals, devote ourselves to them, in 
the face of every obstacle, we shall be lifted out 
of the dreadful mire of the commonplace, where 
the feet of most of us stick fast all our lives. 
But they will have no half-hearted devotion. 
They want whole-souled service only, and they 
are right. Willing to give us all of themselves 
it is only fair they should ask all from us. 


302 


An Index Finger. 

“ I have worked but little in oil, and am almost 
entirely uninstructed, yet these pictures form, 
whenever I take up a brush ; and it isn’t putting 
it too strong to say that they beg to be painted. 
They come in color exactly as they want to be 
put on canvas, — not simply in my mind, but be- 
fore my eyes, though thin and shadowy. 

‘‘ One Sunday when rambling in the country I 
passed an old well, and said to myself, ‘ I’ll paint 
that.’ Instantly I saw a man lying by the wall, 
though no man was there. I painted it that way 
and put it up in the den I call my studio. 

“ One day a stranger who came there with one 
of my friends saw it and took a great fancy to 
it. He said it was a scene from his memory. 
The old well was the one at his childhood’s 
home, and the man was his father, as he had seen 
him lying in the shade many a time, long ago. 
The upshot of it was, that he offered me two 
hundred and fifty dollars for it — it was a little 
thing — which it is needless to say I accepted. 
When he went away I thought I ought to faint 
or do something extraordinary to work off my 
astonishment.” 

But you didn’t rest on that ? ” 

No ; I went on with other ideals, in little 
spots of time squeezed out of the odd-jobbery of 
my daily grind in black and white. I believe 
that, when we work on our ideals, the very shape 
of our heads change. My mother says mine is 


Bohemia’s Highways and Byways. 303 

changing, for which I am most grateful, its orig- 
inal shape being like unto an old-fashioned coun- 
try horse-block.” 

“Have you had sympathy in the pursuit of 
your ideals ? ” Cartice asked. 

“ Hot always. That was a want I felt for ten 
years. All that time I hunted for a companion, 
an artist, who, like myself, loved the country and 
rural subjects, to paint with me. At last I found 
one and have him yet. We inspire each other. 
Together we go to the country on Sundays and 
make studies. The other artists I encounter in 
my humble path are so woodeny, so coarse, so 
worldly that I need patience to suffer them at 
all, and I never find them companionable. They 
chaff me and call me a sentimentalist. I don’t 
care. I believe in sentiment. If I didn’t idealize 
life and work, I should have to give both up. I 
would willingly go and live in the humblest little 
old place in the country and never see a city 
again, if I could but work on my ideals.” 

Cartice was seeing the square-headed little 
plodder from a new point of view — an inner and 
spiritual one, and in its beautifying light the 
square head became symmetrical, the stooping 
shoulders erect, the pale face attractive, the eyes 
aflame with vital force, and the bearing that of 
one conscious of being of value. It was then 
that she recognized him as one of her own people, 
from her own planet, and blamed herself for not 


304 


An Index Finger. 

sooner seeing through the transparent mask that 
hard environment had made. 

She asked him what he thought is to be the 
fate of those, who, having an ideal, stifle, ignore 
or slaughter it even, and give their time and en- 
ergy to the performance of some poor pitiful, 
paltry work which demands but a tithe of their 
ability, for the sake of a little money with which 
to keep out the unwelcome howls of the wolf. 

Look about you and see,” he said, with a con- 
temptuous gesture. ‘‘Look at me, a creature 
slinking in and out of rich publishing houses, 
hunting crumbs, like the dogs that hung round 
the rich man’s table, with fear written in every 
movement, dejection in my spirit, indigence in 
my garments and weariness in my heart.” 

He got up and walked to and fro nervously, 
and as he moved and talked he became trans- 
formed. The timid, shrinking little figure van- 
ished and in its place strode one whose step was 
firm and eye fearless. 

“ There are hundreds like me. The woods — 
the city’s accursed woods are full of them. They 
run over each other in their eagerness to do the 
bidding of some master who can drop a coin or 
so into their flabby purses. Faust sold his soul to 
the devil for a good price ; but we, miserable 
wretches, sell it daily for a song. Why ? Be- 
cause we are such pitiful cowards that we can’t 
face the scarecrow that goes by the name of 


Bohemia’s Highways and Byways. 305 

starvation. We live so far below our true selves 
that we don’t know the law that would carry us 
through, which is, give the best to get the best. 
Why not trust the soul ? The ideal is the real ; 
it is the voice of the soul, otherwise the voice of 
God, and it must have expression. If not here 
and now, then sometime, somewhere. Its ac- 
count is bound to be presented and must be paid. 
Death itself can’t prevent the final settlement. 

What do they do at school with the lazy boy 
who slights his lessons ? After while they turn 
him back in his books and he has his road to 
retrace. We shall have the same experience, if 
we have heard the voice of the ideal and heeded 
it not. We shall be sent back to do it all over 
again — yes, from beyond the grave, for what can 
there be on the other side for him who has be- 
trayed his trust, but contempt and a command 
to go back and try again ? ” 

He stopped before Cartice, and with blazing 
eyes and uplifted finger said, “ In this moment I 
determine to outrage my ideals no more, come 
what may. I have new light. We all have been 
acting on the assumption that we knew what 
would happen if we didn’t do thus and so. In 
point of fact nobody knows. With results we 
have nothing to do. We have only to follow our 
highest leading and leave the rest to God. To 
ignore or debase a noble gift that has been en- 
trusted to us is a sin against our souls, which 


306 


An Index Finger. 

many of us have stupidly committed day after 
day, and we are daily paying the penalty. You 
shall see me here no more, bartering work in 
which I have no heart for a few miserable dol- 
lars. Never again ; no, never again.” 

You are right, Mr. Bardell, a thousand times 
right,” said Mrs. Coring, with throbbing heart 
and glistening eyes. “ I have long known that 
one should never give less than the best, and that 
an outraged ideal will be avenged. Yet I daily 
commit that sin. I used to feel that I had some- 
thing more than common to do in the world. I 
had ideals ; but I put them off, always waiting for 
a time when I could see my way clear to devote 
myself entirely to them. I waited too long. 
Now they come less frequently and are less urgent, 
and I have grown weary and indifferent. I 
wasted my time hunting happiness.” 

“ Happiness belongs to the ideal,” said Bardell. 
‘‘ It is a matter of subjective appreciation, so is 
its opposite, misery. Perhaps it would be clearer 
to say that happiness exists in the idea one forms 
of it, hence it is purely ideal. We are happy, 
when we believe ourselves happy. But for the 
most part all the world thinks happiness is to be 
found in externals ; that it can be secured in 
thick slices which we can eat like bread, while 
comfortably seated in good houses. Money and 
marriage are supposed to have a monoply of it. 
What idocy 1 ” 


Bohemia’s Highways and Byways. 307 

‘^Yes, idiocy,” Cartice echoed. “Thackeray 
says, ‘For my own part I know of nothing 
more contemptible, unmanly or unwomanly 
and craven than the everlasting sighing for 
happiness.’ When a child, I had a conscious- 
ness or memory of a world in which I had 
once lived where there was no such word as hap- 
piness, and yet none were unhappy. I under- 
stand that now. It means that happiness only 
exists where it is not thought of, talked about or 
pursued. I believe it is intended that we shall 
be happy; but not in our own foolish way. 
Freedom is the destiny of the human race, and 
that freedom holds for us a happiness infinitely 
greater and higher than we now can imagine, 
because it contains our full development, our 
perfected intellectual and spiritual growth. It 
is the freedom of truth, long since prophesied. 
When we know the truth, we are free, and hap- 
piness comes with freedom. Heaven is within 
one ; it consists in the soul’s unfolding or coming 
into a knowledge of itself. We reach that 
through expression. In this way we grow, as 
every plant struggles to do. So you see, if we 
strangle our ideals, we stunt our growth, and 
shall be cut down like the bent, and imperfect 
tree, — cut down, to come again perhaps, for an- 
other trial, and still another and another until 
our destiny is accomplished. Therefore it is that 
doing our best should be our religion, as it is na- 


308 


An Index Finger. 

ture’s religion. It is the only road we can take 
which leads to the goal at which we must arrive, 
sooner or later. It is the price each soul must 
pay who would be saved. Instead of that, most 
of us have gone about hunting happiness on a 
childish plane, and making a great plaint, when 
we didn’t find it. ’Twould be laughable, were 
it not so pitiful.” 

Isn’t it plain enough,” said Bardell, “ that if 
a wholesome civic and social spirit prevailed, we 
should be sufliciently enlightened to find our re- 
ward in doing our best, whether it were to raise 
potatoes, polish door knobs or paint pictures. 
All great men and women who have helped hu- 
mankind have done so. They gave their best 
and nothing less, even when the world did not 
want it, and stoned them for it. They had a far 
greater reward than human appreciation. They 
grew to heroic, mental and spiritual stature. If 
Jesus of Nazareth had not given the best that 
was in Him, even at the cost of crucifixion. He 
could not have been the light of the world. 

“ How would it be with the world to-day, if 
all the great spirits that make up the enlightened 
minority, had merely jogged on doing something 
that secured the necessities of the body, rather 
than run any risk of being short of bread by 
pointing a new road ? The soul must follow its 
best light, taking no thought for the result. I 
shall do that henceforth.” 


Bohemia’s Highways and Byways. 309 

“ I rejoice in your emancipation,” Cartice said, 
looking at him with glowing eyes. “ I begin to 
see what it means to be born again. May it not 
be to awaken a knowledge of our own being, 
value and work ? ” 

Bardell bade her good-bye with the seriousness 
of one going on a long journey. When he was 
gone a new sense of loneliness came over her. It 
was because he already had started up the moun- 
tain, leaving her still in the vale. 


310 


An Index Finger. 


OHAPTEE XIX. 

THE JOYS. 

Why went that young life out 
On honor’s perilous road ? 

The carping tongue and the jealous mind 
Stay here to wound and goad. 

“ A picture once I saw — 

Three crosses against the sky ! 

And the heaviest cross was the highest one ; 
Perhaps that answers why.” 

Mbs. Doeiistg was surprised and delighted at 
receiving a visit from the Joys one evening. 
Having parted with everything that goes by the 
name of property, they had come to Hew York 
to seek fortune on the dramatic stage, both hav- 
ing talent and taste for mimic art. As joyful as 
ever, they met their changed fortunes with their 
old-time merry laugh. Their two children were 
in an excellent school, and the business now in 
hand was seeking a chance to earn the money 
necessary to keep the machinery of life moving 
for them all. 

“ Our time for looking about is somewhat lim- 
ited,” said Burton, with cheery humor, as the 
cash box is not overflowing.” 

“We shall And something,” said Lilia, with 
calm assurance. 


The Joys. 


311 


Must,” said Mrs. Coring. “ Must is a mag- 
net. What we must have, we always get.” 

The difficult search began at once in dead 
earnest. Thousands had walked the rough road 
before them, some of whom had found foothold, 
but others by scores and hundreds had gone 
down in the city’s remorseless maelstrom. It 
was like being wrecked in mid-ocean. Some 
managed to seize a plank and keep afloat. Some 
spent their strength and sank early. Others 
buffeted the waves long and bravely, only to go 
down at last, a pitiful, a woful, a heart-breaking 
spectacle. 

The animal knows as the dramatic agent was 
an unknown quantity to the Joys, hence they 
were not prepared for his peculiar antics. Snubs, 
insults and sneers rained down upon them. Still 
they kept on and still they wore cheerful faces, 
still the sunshine of their hearts was unclouded 
— the heavenly sunshine that was rated as mere 
empty-headedness by duller, coarser souls. 

Days and weeks rolled on, for “ time carries no 
anchor,” until the money that constituted their 
plank on. the city’s rough ocean was gone. 

When talking with Cartice one evening, Lilia 
Joy said: ^‘If we did not 'know that we outlast 
death and have endless life before us. Burton and 
I would end our troubles and our children’s too, 
perhaps. It would require less courage than we 
need for one day of life now. But we know that 


312 


An Index Finger. 

we can’t kill ourselves, however much we might 
try because there is no death. In spite of bullets, 
knives, poisons and rivers, we should still be 
alive, Avondering, no doubt, why we were so blind 
as to think we could destroy that which is inde- 
structible. No ; our salvation must be worked out 
clear to the end, uncomplainingly. We are here 
to learn, and must stay until Ave are ready to go 
higher. At the longest, our probation is short, 
and it means so much to us. We are building 
the edifice of character, Avhich is to last for all 
time. This little chapter of existence is but a 
day in the great cycle. No ; I shall not gh^e up ; 
I shall never despair, let come what may.” 

Day succeeded day, but no brighter outlook 
opened, yet never were they seen Avith a cloud 
on their faces. Though their purses were empty, 
friendship and compassion kept away bitter 
need, and their spirits were sweet enough to ac- 
cept the goods the gods sent without letting their 
pride be Avounded. It needs a sweeter spirit to 
receive than to give. 

At last a foothold on the stage was gained for 
both — an opportunity more likely to increase 
humility than foster vanity, but they accepted it 
thankfully, and it led on to better things. 

All Avent well for a time ; but one day a tele- 
gram came announcing the dangerous illness of 
their children, Avho had fallen victims to an 
epidemic. They went at once. The children 


313 


The Joys. 

died, and a few days later their father also closed 
his eyes to this world. 

Lilia returned to New York to go on with the 
grim business of life. Was the joy gone from 
her face ? No ; it was still there, softened, 
heightened and illumined by a new and holy 
light. 

“Dear friend,” she said, as she and Cartice 
talked together on the evening of her return, 
“ there are three new graves in the old cemetery 
at home, but they do not hold my husband and 
children. That which each contains is an un- 
reality, a thing never destined to endure, — a gar- 
ment which the real being wore to make itself 
seen by our dim eyes. Alice Carey has described 
it well : 

Though you wore something earthly about you 
Which once we called you — 

A robe all transparent and brightened 
With the soul shining through. 

But when you had dropped it in going — 

*Twas but yours for a day — 

Safe back in the bosom of Nature, 

We laid it away. 

Strewing over it odorous blossoms, 

Their perfume to shed : 

But you never were buried beneath them. 

And never were dead. 

“Friends say that I am left alone; but it is 
not true. I am never alone. There is no separa- 
tion for those whom love unites. We are one in 


314 An Index Finger. 

the universal spirit of love — God. Did not one 
friend beyond the grave tell us that every death 
is a resurrection ? Is not the stone already rolled 
away from every sepulchre ? Would I call my 
dear ones back to face the cruel conditions of life 
here ? No, a thousand times no. When I looked 
at the dead face of my husband, so calm, and 
profoundly at peace with everything, I said ‘ My 
love, my dear love, heart of my heart and soul of 
my soul, love of my youth and companion of my 
spirit forevermore, I thank God that the hard 
things of the world can hurt you no more.’ The 
cruelest pang poverty has given me was seeing 
him bear humiliation and insult in silence, with 
heavenly patience. Poverty for oneself is bad 
enough, but when we see those we love suffer be- 
cause of it, we know exquisite anguish. I can 
make the fight alone, and it is better so. He is 
safe. That will sustain me. 

“ And my children ; they, too, are safe. It is 
well with them. They are not lost. All things 
we call lost are in the angels’ keeping. 

“ I shall go on with my work, thankful for the 
chance, disagreeable as much of it is, because of 
unavoidable contact with shallow, inferior people. 
But my true life is away from it all, sacred and 
safe. There is a reason beyond my fathoming 
for my being what and where I am. It is all 
right — all wisely directed, and I shall go on, not 
sullenly, but in patience and hope. My faith is 


The Joys. 316 

that all is well. I must live it and not simply 
talk it.” 

Looking at Lilia’s beautiful face, brightened 
with the radiance of belief, Cartice Doring 
knew that one by one she was finding her people 
— the people whom she dimly remembered as 
having been a part of her life in the remote past, 
and who were linked by the ties of sympathy and 
love to the present and all the endless future. 

Her own people, — the faithful, the heroic the 
aspiring, the wide-minded, the loving, the true. 

Lilia was one of them — Lilia of the light heart 
and rippling laugh in days gone by ; and of the 
sturdy soul and dauntless faith in sorrow and 
misfortune. 

ISTow Cartice saw that her own people all be- 
came acquainted with suffering, sooner or later, 
and that this was the greatest of teachers to the 
human race. Without suffering nothing is born, 
nothing grows. 

“ Who are these in white garments ? ” asked 
the saint of the heavenly visions. 

“They are those who have passed through 
great tribulation,” was the answer. 

In fancy she saw again the long procession, 
made up of her people. Out of the dim and far 
distant past they came, filing steadily on into the 
unseen, endless future. In each spirit burned the 
quenchless fire we name genius; on each face 
were signs of suffering; “but no voice uttered 


316 


An Index Finger. 

plaints.” Not all were victors. Many were of 
the baffled and beaten, the disappointed and de- 
feated, but they went to the wall with unbent 
head and silent, smiling lips. 

“ My people, my dear people,” she said, ‘‘ with 
you I breathe the air native to my soul. You 
sought the truth, you found it, you lived it, and 
it made you free.” 

What is truth ? Who can answer the Koman 
governor’s question ? In the Syriac tongue it is 
described as “ the arrow which flies to the mark.” 
Nothing else reaches the mark. Nothing else 
has a mark. Life has no other aim and end than 
to free oneself from error, through a knowledge 
of truth. This is the only power that can set us 
free, and only in freedom is happiness. 

But with most people the search is not for 
truth but success — success on the commonplace, 
external plane — which is the very negation of 
moral growth and spiritual progress. High 
minds, dedicated to noble ideals are few, but 
mediocres are numerous. 

When we have escaped from the region of 
mediocrity we revel in a purer atmosphere, where 
we may join hands with the elect and dance a 
round,” said Marie Bashkirtseff, one of the 
youngest, bravest and brightest of the elect. 

The mediocre mass is an aggregation of self- 
enslaved minds, against whose self-satisfled stu- 
pidity the gods themselves are powerless. 


People of the Past. 


317 


CHAPTEK XX. 

PEOPLE OF THE PAST. 

Here sits he, shaping wings to fly : 

His heart forebodes a mystery ; 

He names the name eternity.” — Tennyson, 

“What birth is, that also is death; it is the same line 
drawn in two directions.” — Schopenhauer, 

One evening at the house of a famous orator 
Mrs. Doring saw a face with which she had been 
familiar since childhood, yet never before had she 
seen it outside of the enchanted realm of imagina- 
tion. 

It was a woman’s face, strong, noble, beautiful, 
and the eyes, the brown eyes of it, had in them a 
compassion that embraced the whole human race. 

Cartice looked upon it with an all-compelling 
fascination, for it was the face of one of her own 
people — the very dearest one — the Helen of her 
young dreams, to whom she used to tell her hopes 
and yearnings, and who always understood, and 
gave sympathy and cheer. 

How often had she pictured that face on 
paper, trying to make objective what she saw 
clearly with her subjective sight, but how impos- 
sible it had ever been to give the eyes the direct, 
comprehensive, compassionate glow that distin- 


318 


An Index Finger. 

guished them, — the light of the soul itself, which 
went straight to other souls ! 

She would not ask the name lest it prove to 
be one below her ideal. She hardly dared look 
away lest the precious vision vanish, while her 
eyes were turned aside. No ; it were better to 
hold the glad fancy as long as possible. “Do 
you know Helen Gardener ? ” asked a voice at 
her side. 

She turned to the speaker, dazed and scarcely 
understanding. 

“Whom?’’ 

“ Helen Gardener, the author, — that lady you 
were looking at just now. Like Huxley and 
some of the more humble of us she believes that 
the main thing is to have done with lying.” 

“Then she is my Helen,” thought Cartice. 
“How remarkable, too, that she has the very 
same name I gave her.” 

“ Come, Mrs. Doring,” said her friend, “ I want 
to have you meet her. I fancy you two will be 
pleased with each other.” 

When Cartice found herself talking with the 
incarnation of one of her ideal people of long ago, 
she had a flash of knowledge of the oneness, in- 
separableness and unchangeableness of all things 
past, present and future. 

Did her new-found, old-time friend recognize 
her ? It would seem so, for she was strongly at- 
tracted to Cartice from the first moment. 


319 


People of the Past. 

The question under discussion in the little 
group of whom she was one, was whether art, 
especially the art of fiction, should exist for art’s 
sake only — that is to give pleasure — or should it 
also aim to instruct. 

“ I believe,” said Helen Gardener, “ and have 
lived up to my belief, that fiction which merely 
entertains, and carefully steers clear of the deep 
and often dark problems that face all thoughtful 
minds is pernicious in its effect. The literature 
of the optimist is the literature of shallowness 
and selfishness, a bid for surface appreciation, 
an appeal to a light and superficial taste. Life 
is tragic. If it be represented in fiction, let the 
picture be true to nature. The novel should be a 
tonic, not an opiate. What think you, Mrs. 
Doring ? ” 

“ Like Goethe and Schiller I think art ‘ no lux- 
ury of leisure, no mere amusement to charm the 
idle nor relax the care-worn ; but a mighty infiu- 
ence, serious in its aims, although pleasurable in 
its means.’ The advocates of art for art’s sake, 
say that its object is the creation of the beauti- 
ful. What is the beautiful ? Is it that which 
pleases the eye only, or has it power to thrill the 
soul ? The great novels have all carried great 
messages. They have shaken the hearts of men 
and aroused them to new knowledge ; they have 
broken the bonds of prejudice, and set the bonds- 
men free. They have effected a movement of 


320 


All Index Finger. 

the thought-world in the direction of ‘ that far- 
off, divine event toward which the whole crea- 
tion moves.’ They have spoken the truth as their 
authors beheld it.” 

Helen Gardener’s brown eyes glowed and she 
smiled affectionately, saying : 

‘‘ You and I belong to the same ethical family, 
Mrs. Doring.” 

That night as she lay down to sleep, Cartice 
half persuaded herself that she was again a child, 
day-dreaming under the elm tree, the world un- 
known and still idealized, and the years that 
lay between that time and the present obliter- 
ated. 

“ Do I wish it were so ? ” she asked herself. 

‘‘ No, I am glad so much of the journey has 
been accomplished. The future is always better 
than the past. It has in it that which we are to 
become, for life is endless becoming.” 

Cartice and the new-found Helen became warm 
friends; but not till their friendship had stood 
the test of time did Cartice tell her how the crea- 
tive power we call imagination had found her 
years before. 

Quite as unexpectedly did Mrs. Doring one 
day meet the stranger to whom she had confided 
her ambitions and dreams under the elm tree 
long ago. She recognized him instantly, though 
of course he did not know her. 


321 


People of the Past. 

The great world knew him well. The bauble 
fame, and the jewel of success were his. 

It was he who had sung : 

“I^d rather fail in Bohemia, than win in another land. 
******* 

Its honors not garnered by thrift or trade, 

But for beauty and truth men’s souls have made.” 

When she made herself known to him, his first 
question was, “ Have you found your own peo- 
ple?” 

“ A few,” she answered, a faithful few ; but 
the search goes on forever.” 

In a little while he went away — went into the 
silence. 

Still another picture of the past came and 
blended with the present. 

In the parlors of a friend one evening, Mrs. 
Doring met a number of the most eminent 
women from all parts of the country, who work 
for the political liberty of their sex. There had 
been a convention in Washington, and many of 
the delegates were “doing” Hew York before 
returning home. 

A lady from what then was a territory, but is 
now a state, charmingly told some of her experi- 
ences in laboring with members of her legisla- 
ture. She mentioned name after name, relating 
various incidents, some humorous, and some ex- 
citing compassion on account of their revelation 


322 An Index Finger. 

of the depths of ignorance in certain legislative 
minds. 

“ After several encounters with darkened minds 
of the class I have just mentioned,” said the 
speaker, “ it was a pleasure to have a chat with 
Representative Kendall. We knew well where 
he stood, for throughout his career, as editor and 
lawmaker, he has distinguished himself as the 
staunch friend of every movement that promised 
to help women win a greater freedom and there- 
fore gain a greater usefulness. 

“ Once I asked him how it was that he who had 
appreciated women personally so little as never 
to have married one, was yet so loyal a supporter 
of them in the aggregate that he cheerfully put 
his shoulder to the wheel of every cart which 
carried their burdens. 

“ ‘ Now that,’ said he, with a boyish laugh and 
sunny smile, ‘ has its root in a bit of sentiment ; 
but I don’t deny that it has grown into a prin- 
ciple. The only woman I found indispensable to 
me found me very dispensable to her. Through 
that experience I learned that love, if it be gen- 
uine, can rise higher than possession. She was 
one of your emancipated ; that is, she made a 
place for herself in the world, and leaned on no 
one. Her life showed me that woman could 
grow to heroic mental stature, if she would 
think, work and act for herself. The one of 
whom I speak requested me to do what I could 


323 


People of the Past. 

all my life to make it easier for women to get 
out of their dependent condition. I have done 
so and have found pleasure in it. She is in the 
world somewhere, still, and I feel that every- 
thing I do for women helps her. That’s my 
story. Take it and use it, if you wish, as an ex- 
ample of how the monster man can be human- 
ized and regenerated by a woman who neither 
loved him nor married him.’ 

“ ‘ Whatever good I may have done, whatever 
I have achieved in any praiseworthy direction, I 
owe to that Avoman. But for her wholesome en- 
couragement, if living at all, I should be still a 
clerk at some more prosperous man’s desk, with- 
ered in spirit and wasted in body, and Avith no 
brains at all. It used to be quite the correct 
thing, in stories, for good women to marry rak- 
ish fellows, and ‘ make men of them,’ as the 
phrase had it. I am now convinced they achieve 
that result far quicker, when they don’t marry 
them, whether rakish or otherAvise, but make 
them stand on their own feet entirely.’ ” 

Mrs. Poring listened to this story, feeling very 
much as might a ghost Avho comes wandering 
back to its old haunts and hears some one talk- 
ing of its life when on earth, for this Kendall 
was her old lover whom she loved not and she 
was the woman of whom he spoke. Turning to 
the writing desk of her hostess, she Avrote : 

“Cartice Hill Poring sends regards to the 


324 


An Index Finger. 

Honorable Charles Kendall. It is with grateful 
pleasure she learns that he has been faithful to 
the promise made to her long ago, to do what he 
could to make life broader and freer for woman- 
kind.” 

The response was prompt and full. He told 
the story of his life from the day of their parting 
to the day of writing. Then came these para- 
graphs : 

“I am more than glad to have found you 
again. Not that I ever really lost you, for you 
have an eternal abiding-place in my mind and 
heart. Though I have forgotten much and wish 
I could forget still more of the rubbish of mem- 
ory, neither you nor aught pertaining to you can 
be forgotten. You are not forgettable. But I 
am glad to be able to talk with you once more, 
although it be only on paper and across a conti- 
nent. For me the end of the drama is near. I 
am in the last act, which has but few scenes. 
Life and death! what are they? We know as 
much of one as of the other, for we understand 
neither. We drop the question of whence be- 
cause the imminent whither faces us and must 
be met, and dark enough it looms before us as 
we confront it at short range. Who can answer 
this cry of perplexed humanity ? 

“ I turn to you as I did in the past, and bade 
you decide whether I should go or stay. Now I 
have no choice but to go ; yet tell me, shall I go 


325 


People of the Past. 

with peace and trust into light, or must I lie 
down to be wrapped in darkness and silence for- 
ever ? It is a time when my own strength is in- 
sufficient, and I reach out for the clasp of an as- 
suring hand. 

Is it strange that I turn to you for the help 
I need on this journey, which, though lonesome, 
is brief ? It seems a natural thing to do. In all 
the years since I saw you, and have known noth- 
ing of you, when the way was uncertain, I al- 
ways turned to you for guidance. I said to 
myself: ‘Would Cartice Hill wish me to do 
this ? ’ And I did that which I thought you 
would sanction. So you see you have been 
with me aU the time. We have never been sep- 
arated. 

“ To me you are always young — young and 
full of courage and hope. I see you as I saw you 
last, a precious picture in my memory. The 
years that have passed since then are blown like 
a breath away. I am sitting beside you in the 
park again. I can almost touch your blue dress, 
and I hear the scratching of your parasol as you 
wrote with its tip on the ground. 

“ The disease that was incipient in me in youth 
has been bravely baffied by this climate. I some- 
times think it is the insidious agent that will ul- 
timately destroy the human race. The end must 
come, however, even here, and I see that it is 
coming. 


326 


An Index Finger. 

“ So tell me what life has taught you about 
death, if anything. No matter how hard and 
grim and fearsome the knowledge may be, I 
want to know it. Strange that although we de- 
vote our lives to learning, and many become vain 
of their acquirements, of this, the most important 
of all subjects, nobody knows anything, and no- 
body cares to learn till about to open the dread 
door.” 

This appeal Cartice answered by telling the 
story of her communion with friends called dead, 
and she told this with a directness and simplicity 
that went straight to the mark. To her it was 
clear enough that, if a man die, he shall live 
again, — and shall grow, his growth depending 
upon his aspirations. Genius itself has been de- 
scribed as a “ faculty for growth.” Being a citi- 
zen of the universe, man is destined to know the 
universe as his native village. The form only 
changes. Death is not. 

To this Kendall wrote : 

You have destroyed the last enemy for me. 
‘ Only the form changes.’ Need we dread that ? 
We may even be said to be used to it. We 
haven’t the same bodies we began life with. 
They have changed in every particular, again 
and again. 

“ How extraordinary have been your privileges 
of learning those things to which most of us 


327 


People of the Past. 

have been so blind. Why not write the story 
out more fully and publish it? Since it has 
helped me, might it not help others ? But don’t 
put it into a newspaper. There it would take no 
higher rank than the traditional, blood-curdling 
ghost-story. Make a book of it. That will 
place it on its own feet, to stand or fall by its 
merits. 

Yes, tell your experiences with those who 
dwell in what we call another world; in fact, 
however, another condition. 

‘‘I have had an instinctive, though not un- 
wavering belief that this life was not the end of 
us — perhaps not the beginning; but I had my 
hours of gloomy doubt. The old twaddle of 
an eternity of happiness made up of harps and 
golden streets did not appeal to either my intelli- 
gence or taste. Perhaps, it was a shade less at- 
tractive than annihilation. 

“ Learning to* grow and to do, that is what 
makes an immortality worth having. 

“I have lived on good terms with my con- 
science, .which is of an old-fashioned cut, not 
from fear of hell or hope of heaven, but because 
I am that sort of man. I could not do otherwise. 
Yet I wish I might have learned what you tell 
me, earlier. I think it would have made the ills 
of life here of less moment and might have en- 
hanced its joys and beauties. 


328 


An Index Finger. 

“Who, understanding the philosophy of con- 
tinued life as it has been revealed to you, could 
fail to try and acquire some of the capital, thieves 
cannot steal, with which to begin the larger life 
that opens to us, when we pass the gates of 
death ? It is helping me to make my remaining 
time of more value. 

“You have influenced me as no other person 
has done ever since I knew you. Now you light 
the road out of the world for me. I begin to see 
that there are no accidents. 

“Let who will write the shallow tales that 
reach no farther than the wedding-day. Write 
you the wonderful story of the love of God, as 
’twas told you by those who have tasted death 
and found it not bitter — tell how this love encom- 
passes and pervades everything in the universe, 
conserving all and destroying nothing. Tell of 
the happiness destined for the soul of man, which 
consists in endless unfolding. Tell all this as 
simply and directly as you have told it to me, 
and you will inspire the doubting and cheer the 
despairing.” 

To which Cartice replied : “ In an old book it 

is written, ‘ Though one returned from the dead, 
they would not believe.’ ” 

Kendall wrote : “ In the same book it is writ- 

ten, ‘ Let your light shine.’ ” 

That night she sat down to write the first 
chapter of the book, but instead wrote this : 


329 


People of the Past. 

HIS MESSAGE, 

He came, my dead love, at the close of the day, 

Though the earth had long covered his garments of clay. 

His face glowed with light and with love as he smiPd 
And spoke in the voice that my heart had beguiPd — 

The beautiful voice that my heart had beguil’d. 

** You have wondered, my darling, what soul was the one 
To first greet me with love when my dying was done — 
When I woke from the slumber that stretches between 
The fiesh-and-blood world and the kingdom unseen— 

The world that you see and the kingdom unseen. 

‘‘Know then that the spirit, earth’s veil cast away, 

Sees only the true in that radiant day. 

He who first o’er my spirit, newborn, bent and smiled, 

Was the foe who had gone from me unreconciled — 

My foe who had gone from me unreconciled.” 

So spake my dead love and then vanished away. 

Like the mist of the valley when riseth the day. 

But I know, since that moment, that hate is a dream 
From which the soul wakes when it crosses Death’s stream — 
Awakes to love only, across that dark stream. 

I know, too, that Death cannot change, cannot kill 
E’en the person. My lover, though dead, loves me still ; 

For he came, as of old, and upon me he smil’d. 

And spoke in the voice that my heart had beguil’d — 

The beautiful voice that my heart had beguil’d. 

The book was begun. The writing of it was 
not an easy task in spite of the writer’s warm 
interest in her theme. Little snatches of time, 
after the daily grind at her editorial desk was 
over, were all she could devote to it. Often she 
was too tired to write a line until she had rested 


330 An Index Finger. 

hours. Then, perhaps, to make up for such in- 
dulgence, she wrote far into the night — wrote as 
though bayonets were pressing her — wrote with 
no thought of publisher or public in mind. The 
truth, to write the truth, as it was revealed to 
her, this was her inspiration, her strength, her 
reward. 


The Butterfly’s Flight. 


331 


CHAPTEK XXL 

THE butterfly’s FLIGHT. 


“ The Knight of the Pale Horse, he laid 
His shadowy lance against the spell, 

That hid her Self: As if afraid. 

The cruel blackness shrank and fell. 

‘‘Then, lifting slow her pleasant sleep. 

He took her with him through the night, 

And swam a river cold and deep 
And vanished up an awful height.’^ 

—S. M. B. Piatt 

Some time, it may be, before the world is very 
much older, we shall know well what now we 
but dimly discern, that thought is the substance 
and will the operating force of the universe, and 
that both are electric. 

Then shall we understand the irresistible pow- 
ers of attraction which thought has for kindred 
thought ; and we shall know why we seek eter- 
nally our own kind of people, consciously or uncon- 
sciously, and never know rest for the spirit until 
we find them, for only with them is to be had the 
life-giving, soul-sustaining quality of sympathy, 
through whose vibrations the universe was formed 
and is maintained. 

In obedience to this law of attraction Cartice 
Doring continued to search for persons awake to 
the joyful fact that there is no death, so she 


332 


An Index Finger. 

might learn more of the laws which govern com- 
munion between life here and beyond. She found 
believers, but because of the various fads and di- 
versified foolishness with which they frequently 
garnished their belief they were of slight help to 
her. 

Each gave his faith a name that revealed the 
fence he had built around his mind, though he 
condemned all other fences. Some preached 
against the phenomena of the spiritual philoso- 
phy and secretly reveled in it. 

And there were the theosophists, who, as Mr. 
Stead says, can always explain everything. From 
the proud eminence of their omniscience many of 
them looked down on plain spiritualists, and ad- 
vised against showing any civility to spirits. Yet 
they patronized mediums and astrologers on the 
sly, and frequently produced a little of the phe- 
nomena themselves, merely to show their occult 
power. 

Among these and sometimes outside the sacred 
pale, were reincarnationists who make the plaus- 
ible and beautiful theory of progression through 
an eternity of existences distasteful and tiresome 
by their memories ” of past human experiences. 
They had been princes of high degree, invariably, 
never paupers or criminals. Napoleons, Caesars, 
Mahomets, Cleopatras and Sapphos were weari- 
somely plentiful ; but humbler types were rare. 
Many were so busy feeding their vanity with 


333 


The Butterfly’s Flight. 

these romantic hallucinations they had no time 
to learn anything useful. 

Hypnotists were numerous, many of them 
claiming that their particular science accounted 
for everything under the sun. 

Then there were many who declared that in 
all the universe there is but good ; but they fell 
into factions represented by different leaders, and 
fought many and many a bitter bout to prove it. 

It was enough to make one cry out in anguish. 

Where can wisdom be found ? And where is 
the place of understanding ? ” 

Yet it had its hopeful side. It showed that 
many were thinking, and, though thought took 
different trends, all roads eventually lead to the 
truth. 

Letters came often from Chryssalyn, but they 
contained no messages from friends invisible, for 
she never gave them an opportunity to say any- 
thing, after Cartice went away. She was afraid. 
Sometimes a picture or vision flashed before her, 
in spite of her avoidance of everything of the 
kind. If it pertained to her friend she told her ; 
but that was all. 

Six years had passed with never a sight of 
the Butterfly’s beloved face, and never a word 
from the dear people of the unseen world. 
Cartice had felt their presence often, and knew 
that they were faithful ; but she was hungry for 
a word from them. 


334r 


An Index Finger. 

Now came a letter from Chrissalyn begging 
her to spend some weeks with her. It was a 
particularly girlish and extravagant letter, al- 
most a photograph of the mind of the unregener- 
ate Butterfly of old. She knew a delightful 
little summer resort where they could go and be 
out of the sight and sound of work and care of 
every hue. She had set her heart upon it. 

Arranging for a leave of absence Mrs. Doring 
soon was on her way. She found her friend in 
extraordinarily good spirits, and their reunion 
was of a school-girlish order of delight. 

After a few hours the years of their separation 
seemed never to have been. We have all had 
this experience and wondered at it. After long 
absence we come back to a familiar spot, and in 
a little while find it difficult to persuade ourselves 
that we have ever been away. Perhaps this is a 
proof that to the true self there is neither sepa- 
ration nor distance, nor past nor future. All is 
near and all is now. 

The Butterfly had a new assortment of radiant 
wings — otherwise garments — ready to spread 
gaily at the springs. One by one she displayed 
them with childish pleasure, for personal adorn- 
ment had ever been her fetich. 

“ As we get on a little in years,” she said, ‘‘ all 
we can do to head off the enemy. Age, is to make 


335 


The Butterfly’s Flight. 

believe we ignore him. Extra paint and feathers 
are necessary. I’ve had it flung in my face that 
I’m not so young as I was, but I won’t admit it. 
Anyhow I’m still young enough to excite envy 
and jealousy.” 

Here she laughed with diabolical pleasure. 

‘‘ I intend to make the best of this world and 
stay in it as long as I can, notwithstanding it’s 
no paradise. But I have lost some illusions in 
regard to it. For instance, that of my own irre- 
sistible attractiveness. I can draw moths yet, 
but formerly I thought I could attract men, pro- 
viding I ever encountered such beings.” 

Again, night after night, Chrissalyn sat as of 
old, calling up for her friend’s delight the unseen 
people who were always ready to respond. 

When Cartice spoke of the long time that had 
passed with never a word from one of them, Mo- 
reau said : 

“Ho time has passed. There is no time. To 
the spirit a thousand years are as one day.” 

The last evening in the city came. They were 
to start for the springs early next day. The 
luggage was carefully packed and so their minds 
were easy on that score. When they went up- 
stairs the house was perfectly still, all save them- 
selves being asleep. 

They sat down in Chrissalyn’s room to chat. 
Cartice thought she never had seen the Butterfly 
look so young, so beautiful, so hopeful, so happy. 


336 


An Index Finger. 

Preparing the table for Planchette they 
eagerly awaited the messages that would surely 
come over that inexplicable telephone. 

Now something passing strange occurred. 
From the empty air beside them music burst 
forth — music the like of which they had never 
heard — music made by instruments unknown 
to them, but of unearthly sweetness, with power 
to thrill to the depths of their being. 

Awed and amazed the two friends looked at 
each other, in silence. Then, as its heavenly 
sweet vibrations shook their souls, the tears ran 
from their eyes, they knew not why. 

Again and again the unseen musicians made 
marvelous melody for the two enchanted listen- 
ers. Sometimes the chords were plaintively sad, 
sometimes joyous, but always penetrating the 
deepest recesses of being, the inner sanctuary 
where poetry and dreams have their high and 
heavenly dwelling-place. 

The two entranced listeners sat facing each 
other, lost in the delicious spell of the melody. 

Suddenly an electric breeze enveloped Cartice, 
sending over her that creepy thrill we are all 
familiar with, which resembles fear, but is not 
fear. There, before her e3^es, just back of Chriss- 
alyn, stood Prescott, looking exactly the same 
as when with them in material form. Somehow 
she was made to understand that she must not 
cry out — nor tell Chriss that he was there. Spell- 


337 


The Butterfly’s Flight. 

bound and silent she watched him. He laid his 
hand on the Butterfly’s shining head, smiled and 
spoke. She saw his lips move, and the glitter of 
his teeth, but heard no sound, understood no 
word. Then, while her eyes were still upon 
him, he vanished. 

“ You look very pale, Cartice. Are you fright- 
ened ? ” Chrissalyn asked, as the music ceased. 

Mrs. Coring shook her head, for her tongue, 
dry and powerless, was no longer a willing serv- 
ant. 

The music came back no more. After talking 
of the wonderful phenomenon awhile, they bade 
each other good-night and parted. 

Cartice could not sleep. The strange events 
of the evening drove away repose. Again and 
again she recalled the expression on Prescott’s 
face, trying to translate it into words, but in 
vain. Only one thing was plain. It was some- 
thing pertaining to the Butterfly, and he didn’t 
want her to know it. 

After hours of wakefulness she slept and 
dreamed. She and Chrissalyn were dancing in 
a great and fantastic company. Everybody else 
wore masks, but their faces were uncovered. 
Chrissalyn was the partner of a graceful knight 
in black velvet who whirled her on and on, end- 
lessly. At last they rose into the air together, 
and Chriss became a veritable butterfly, with 
beautiful silvery wings. The knight also de- 


338 An Index Finger. 

veloped wings, but they were black, like his gar- 
ments. 

Cartice called to her friend to come down, but 
she only laughed and rose higher, and finally 
fiew out of sight. With a wildly beating heart 
Cartice awoke. 

Eising, she dressed for the journey. Knock- 
ing on Chrissalyn’s door, she received no answer. 
Then she called her, and with light and jesting 
words bade her make haste. 

Still no answer. Opening the door she entered, 
but started back with a cry whose thrill of horror 
went to the heart like a knife. 

The Butterfly had, indeed, spread silvery wings 
and flown, for there lay her chrysalis, cold, white 
and pulseless. The black knight of death had 
taken her out of sight. The delicate, long-ailing 
lungs had given way, and the inevitable end had 
come. She who loved the world and its foolish, 
fleeting pleasures had gone suddenly out of it. 
Whither? 

It was a sad heart that Mrs. Coring carried 
back to Kew York, in spite of her knowledge 
that the Butterfly had but spread her wings. 

Sometimes in the darkness and silence of night 
she talked aloud to her vanished, yet ever-pres- 
ent, friend. 

“Where are you. Butterfly? Can you hear 
me and see me ? Do you know how heavy is 
my heart sometimes? And are you happy in 


339 


The Butterfly’s Flight. 

your new world ? Is life more beautiful, more 
perfect there ? And do you love me still ? ” 

Ho voice replied, but the light, caressing, elec- 
tric touches came sometimes, and the stricken 
heart was comforted. 


P 


340 


An Index Finger. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE PEOP THAT FAILED. 

** Ye have read, ye have heard, ye have thought,” he said, 
and the tale is still to run. 

“ By the worth of the body that once ye had, give answer — 
what have ye done ? ” — Budyard Kipling, 

Two years passed, and Mrs. Doring still sat at 
her editorial desk. Farnsworth had been the 
kindest and most considerate of employers. The 
envious said no woman ever had an easier situa- 
tion. They raised their eyebrows, when they 
said this, implying the usual sentimental insinua- 
tions; but they were mistaken. Farnsworth’s 
regard for Cartice had no sentimental coloring 
whatever. He admired her ability and delighted 
in giving her a chance, and making that chance 
as pleasant as possible, having views on the un- 
fair, industrial, political and social rulings from 
which women suffer. 

He had come to Hew York, a talented strug- 
gler. How he was a millionaire, chief proprietor 
of a great publishing house, which had become 
great under his management, and he loved to 
make the road a little smoother for those less able 
and less fortunate. 

Cartice loved him, it is true ; but not as the 


341 


The Prop that Failed. 

common mind understands the term. Sometimes 
her eyes grew moist, while she looked at him and 
wished she might have a chance to prove her 
gratitude. He was to her like the shadow of a 
great rock in a weary land. In the weakness of 
spirit ages have bred in her sex, she regarded him 
as a wall that stood between her and possible 
calamity. 

“ I need fear no financial disaster, while he 
lives,” she thought. “His hand will be ever 
friendly ; his heart ever kind.” 

Farnsworth was far above the average of men, 
but he had a serious weakness of character that 
made curious comradeship with his better attri- 
butes. Anybody, the least trustworthy, the most 
malicious, could sow in him seeds of suspicion 
against his best friend, and in ten hours they 
would be full-grown trees, loaded with bitter and 
baneful fruit. When this happened his kindness 
vanished and he could be as cruel as hate. His 
conscience fied the field, whenever his vanity was 
ruffled. 

Knowing this a woman poisoned his mind 
against Cartice Doring, by a few lying words — a 
woman who believed it would be to her interest 
to get Cartice out of her way. The seed sown 
sprouted, grew, blossomed and bore fruit within 
twenty-four hours. 

The next day Cartice found a note of dismissal 
on her desk, the curtness of which was incom- 


342 


An Index Finger. 

patible Avith the pretensions of a gentleman, if 
addressed to one merely in the capacity of em- 
ployee. But when the employee was a social 
equal, a faithful friend of years and a lady, it 
showed a lack of self-control on the part of the 
writer seldom surpassed. 

The tenor of it was that, as she Avas not doing 
justice ” to the work entrusted to her care, her 
services were dispensed Avith. A check for the 
whole of the unfinished week was enclosed. 

Cartice read the letter and sat like one frozen, 
and the heart-breaking, unbearable look of long 
ago came again into her eyes. 

Every one who has received an unexpected, 
felling bloAV from the hand of a friend can under- 
stand the blended astonishment and anguish of 
that moment. 

She knew who had turned FarnsAvorth against 
her and why it had been done, but that could not 
help the irremediableness of the situation. She 
could not go to FarnsAvorth and mortify him by 
telling him this; and she knew his implacable 
spirit too Avell to hope that he Avould so much as 
allow her an audience. Seriohs as was the blow 
to her finances, its worst effect was on her heart. 
Black and deep are the bruises made by the hands 
we love. 

“ I must not forget what I owe him for past 
kindness,” she said, — must not let this cruelty 
put hatred into my heart. I must forgive him, 


343 


The Prop that Failed. 

for he knows not what he does. Being a man, 
he cannot know how difficult is life for a woman, 
under the existing order of things. Neither does 
he know how often heretofore my heart has bled 
from cruelty; nor how I have loved him; nor 
how weary and feeble I am much of the time. 

“ No ; he doesn’t know. Would any of us ever 
hurt another if we knew all that other has to 
bear ? Besides, it is better to be the victim of 
injustice than the perpetrator of it. Ugly as is 
poverty, it is better to endure it than to have the 
power which the possession of millions confers 
and misuse it. 

“Poor Farnsworth,” she said. “Success has 
spoiled your naturally beautiful soul. 

“ The great destroyer of human conscience that 
goes by the name of business permits you to put 
me out of your service in a summary and humili- 
ating manner, which puts me out of your life 
and friendship at the same time, though moral 
right to treat another human being in this way 
you have none. But the law of causality is ever 
operative, and you cannot escape the consequences 
of your deeds. T6u will get back your meed as 
you measure. 

“ I accept your dismissal as part and parcel of 
the destiny I am working out. Sooner or later 
every earthly prop on which I lean is taken from 
me. Everything has a meaning and purpose. 
The lesson I have been slow to learn is now plain 


344 


An Index Finger. 

to me. It is that I must stand alone, and so must 
every soul, somewhere, some time. Props are de- 
stroyers of strength and character. In all the 
universe there is but one on which we may lean 
without inviting weakness, and that is Eternal 
Being, the background of all life.” 

Gathering up her little possessions from the 
place that had been her official home for eight 
years, Mrs. Coring walked out of it heavy-hearted 
and solitary. The rock from which she had ex- 
pected shelter had vanished from her horizon for- 
ever. More ! It had never been there, save in 
her imagination. It was an illusion from which 
now she was free. 

Curiously enough we regret the loss of our il- 
lusions, yet we ought to thank God fervently 
every time we get rid of one, for it means that 
we are emerging from ignorance and darkness 
into light and knowledge, — approaching nearer 
to the truth that shall make us free. 

On reaching home Mrs. Coring sat down to 
take a practical view of the situation. For 
nearly twenty years had she worked faithfully, 
having begun at seventeen. She had lived in 
modest comfort, and by dint of self-denial had 
saved one thousand dollars. What man above 
mediocrity would think that a fair recompense 
for half a lifetime’s work ? 

A sudden cutting off like that is what any one 
may expect who has given his or her time and 


345 


The Prop that Failed. 

talents to the building up of another’s business. 
It is the soul’s vengeance for not trusting it en- 
tirely, and confidently following whithersoever 
it may lead. 

But there is something shamefully immoral in 
our business methods, when an employee after 
years of faithful service can be flung out without 
a chance for a word of defence. It is as though 
our father should unexpectedly open the door of 
his home and bid us begone forever. And is not 
our employer our business father, from whom we 
have a right to expect consideration ? Does he 
owe us nothing more than our weekly wage? 
Must his relation to us be always measured only 
by dollars and cents ? 

Among the letters Mrs. Doring took with her 
from the oflBlce unopened was one from Bardell, 
now in Paris, famous and prosperous beyond his 
dreams. Strange irony of fate that brought to 
her his glad story of fresh successes on the day 
that carried defeat to her. 

With the superstition common to Bohemia 
Bardell considered Cartice his mascot. His let- 
ters were always frank, friendly and charming. 
His last words were : Follow your ideals. They 
will lead you into freedom.” 

This reminded her of her book. It was fin- 
ished long since; but the writing was scarcely 
half the battle. It languished for want of a pub- 
lisher. Those to whom it had been submitted, 


346 


An Index Finger. 

had returned it, one and all, with the contempt, 
but thinly veiled with regrets, it had excited in 
their infallible minds. 

One plainer spoken and less heavily veneered 
with the world’s polish than the rest, said to her 
face : 

“ Come now, Mrs. Doring, you mustn’t expect 
anybody to publish stuff of that kind — digging 
into the meaning of life, higher methods of evo- 
lution, ‘ shall we live after we die ? ’ ‘ ultimate 
destiny of the human race,’ and all such heavy 
timber. People take no interest in these ques- 
tions. What we want is a rattling good love- 
story, with plenty of hugging and kissing in it. 
I like that in or out of a novel myself. There 
must be some iron-clad obstructionists in it, too, 
cruel parents or other able marplots, and the hero 
must get her in the last chapter or sooner. Any- 
thing but a story that doesn’t end all right. The 
public abhors it. Now, your book is loaded with 
high-up, mountain-peak thought, and wouldn’t 
sell at all.” 

Another, with whom also, she had a personal 
interview, a young man with extraordinary faith 
in his own wisdom, smiled as he returned her 
manuscript, and made his smile so vocative it 
needed few accompanying words. “ It is, ah — 
you know, Mrs. Doring, so wide a departure from 
the standard of art in fiction, that it might make 
even a publisher ridiculous, to say nothing of the 


347 


The Prop that Failed. 

author. One must keep somewhere within sight 
of the existing canons. This, if you will pardon 
me, flies in the face of every one of them.” 

“I dare say,” answered Cartice. ‘‘I never 
troubled myself about the existing canons. It 
is life as I know it that I have tried to portray; 
not life as somebody else says it should be 
painted in books.” 

After a number of equally disheartening ex- 
periences, the book was carefully laid aside to 
await the judgment day. 

Meantime these same publishing houses were 
exuding cart-loads of marketable abominations, 
which were scattered in all directions, doing 
their share in weakening the minds of their un- 
fortunate readers. Life, as depicted by them, 
was a mere sex-chase, more or less interrupted 
by the usual difficulties, all of which was quite in 
accordance with the “ existing canons,” so much 
respected by the young man with the smile. 

Perhaps nothing gives us a lonelier feeling 
than to be cut off from our field of daily activity, 
whatever it may have been. Cartice found her- 
self set back to the dreadful days of her begin- 
ning in New York. It was as though she had 
gone steadily up a steep slope, to a respectable 
height, only to be knocked violently to the bot- 
tom by the hand that was helping her upward. 

‘‘ Had I developed the best that was in me — 


348 


An Index Finger. 

followed my ideals ” — she said, “ this could not 
have happened. In that case I should have stood 
alone long since, leaning on no prop, depending 
on no person’s caprice. Set-backs and knock- 
downs are our schoolmasters, and they are ever 
busy with us until we learn our lessons.” 

A loneliness assailed her heart, poignant, sharp, 
deep. All her life its resistless waves had at 
times rolled over her spirit, — a flood that would 
not be stayed. It was that kind of loneliness 
that creates a solitude which is not placed in a 
densely peopled universe. 

Then came the comforting reflection that we 
are never alone, never solitary, however much we 
may seem to be, and never absolutely on our 
own hands, in spite of appearances. About us 
are ever the spiritual hosts, and back of us, 
within us and about us, the Supreme Self, to 
which each is both inlet and outlet. 

On the evening of Mrs. Boring’s first day of 
idleness, Gabriel Norris called to see her. For 
several years he had been a resident of New 
York. In the worst of the thick mass of the 
miserables he had set up his cobbler’s bench, and 
opened an adjoining reading-room ; and there he 
fished for the souls of men, in the great ocean of 
wretchedness whose huge waves beat about his 
door. 

Cartice told him the story of her summary 


349 


The Prop that Failed. 

ejectment from the place that she had so long 
occupied, and the various shifts that she had 
been making in her mind for the future. 

“ It’s a good thing,” he said, “ when you don’t 
know just what to do, not to do anything — to 
wait, — wait without worry or anxiety — wait and 
trust. Unseen influences are ever at work on 
our destiny. We can hurry nothing, change 
nothing. Kest for a time. You have been so 
busy most of your life that you have had but 
little chance to get acquainted with yourself. 
You have a little capital ahead ; rest on that. 
New ideas come in seasons of repose, for then 
the mind is receptive.” 

‘‘ That is what I had half-decided to do,” she 
answered, though I am still so much a slave to 
the old, erroneous belief that I carry myself on 
my own shoulders, I scarcely could get my con- 
sent to it.” 

And when you feel so disposed,” continued 
Gabriel, “ come to my reading-room and read a 
story or a poem to my sheep — ‘ my po’ los sheep 
o’ de sheepfol,’ whom I try so hard to gather in. 
You may not know it — ^you know yourself so 
little — but you have the most beautiful voice I 
ever heard. Your reading, as well as your 
speech, is exquisite music. ‘ The soul of man is 
audible, not visible,’ says Longfellow. ^ It reveals 
itself in the voice. A sound alone betrays the 
flowing of the eternal fountain.’ ” 


350 


An Index Finger. 

Anxiety and worry fell a^way from Cartice 
Doring soon as she determined to rest and trust. 
A profound philosophic truth is here revealed. 
When we trust, God Himself carries our burdens, 
and we are set free from care. Trust is the es- 
sence, the vital principle of religion, which is at 
heart a recognition of the divine intelligence 
within us, about us, and is reflected by us, — the 
reality we call God. 

It was a joy to be the mistress of her own 
time, to know when she began the day that she 
could do with it what she pleased. It was lux- 
ury to sit at an open window and feel the air 
blow over her, and not be goaded by any thought 
of duty undone. She went about the city and 
enjoyed its treasures of art and beauty. She 
formed new friendships and cultivated old ones. 
She read and, through sympathy, entered into, 
the lives and feelings of authors and the people 
of their creation, as never before. She became 
better acquainted with herself, and by that 
means with all others. She went to Gabriel 
Norris’s unsectarian temple and helped him feed 
his sheep. There the music of her beautiful 
voice called in many a lost one. The bitter lone- 
liness that shadowed her at times fled away and 
troubled her no more. Her spirit came in sym- 
pathetic and loving touch with others, with all 
that is, with the universal mind itself, for this is 
the purpose of life, the union of the entire being 


351 


The Prop that Failed. 

with its original. This is the true freedom which 
is the destiny of the human race. The individual 
self becomes one with the universal, and is hence- 
forth free from limitations, from restrictions, 
from bondage of every kind. It exchanges its 
little circle of personal desires for the great 
world-consciousness. Whosoever does this even 
in the most limited degree puts care and trouble 
behind him. 

Thus it was that this truth which Cartice Cor- 
ing had long theoretically accepted, became a 
part of her being. She began to live it and be 
it, for we only really accept truth when we are 
it. Her eyes lost the look of suffering that 
lighted them at times with a moving and resist- 
less fire, and became trustful, hopeful, peaceful, 
like those of a happy child. 

Difficulties and disappointments vanished and 
fear vexed her no more. She was like those who 
have won all battles, put all troubles behind 
them. She had the knowledge that within her- 
self was power over all temporal dragons ; that 
her welfare depended on no man’s whim ; that 
there are no accidents ; that He who slumbers 
not nor sleeps, is guiding each of His creatures 
in the current of an eternal purpose ” ; that she 
was as indestructible as the universe, and as old, 
as young and as deathless as its builder. She 
thought no more of happiness, because blessed- 
ness had come into her life,— -the blessedness 


352 


An Index Finger. 

which “ consists in progress toward perfection.” 
In an undefined way she felt herself approaching 
high summits, understanding that there is neither 
high nor low, near nor far in the universe save 
in thought. 


The Book and Its Critics. 


353 


XXIII. 

THE BOOK AND ITS CEITIC8. 

The tale is as old as the Eden Tree — and new as the new-cut 
tooth — 

For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of 
Art and Truth ; 

And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his 
dying heart, 

The Devil drum on the darkened pane: “You did it, but 
was it Art? ” — Budyard Killing. 

One day Mrs. Coring received a letter from a 
lawyer announcing Kendall’s death, and advising 
her that by his will she was sole heir to his 
property, which was valued at about twenty-five 
thousand dollars — a fortune in Bohemia. A few 
lines from the testator were enclosed, the last his 
hand penned. He had but one request to make 
in regard to the disposition of it, and that was 
that she use part of it in bringing out her book. 

See,” she said to Lilia Joy, who had long 
lived with her in the little flat, “ how my trust is 
rewarded. Influences unseen were working for 
me while I rested Had I been a little wiser, I 
might have saved myself much torment all my 
life. Worry hinders instead of helps, I believe it 
is one of the forty deadly sins the Egyptians tried 
to avoid.” 


354 


An Index Finger. 

With money to work with it was not difficult 
to find a publisher for the book. It was a true 
tale, told in a simple, straightforward manner, of 
life and its meaning, as its author understood 
them. The theme of it was that life goes on af- 
ter the change we call death, and is inconceiv- 
ably enlarged and ennobled for all who aspire. 

Such of the critics as worship plots and believe 
that the chief aim of life in stories and out is to 
marry and be given in marriage, made it the 
subject of very rough surgery. 

It is a most unwholesome book,” said one. 
‘‘ Love and marriage are scarcely mentioned in it. 
Some twaddle that pretends to come from across 
the river of death is the only bait it has with 
which to angle for the reader’s interest, a theme 
in which healthy minds will find no attraction.” 

Death waits for every one that breathes, yet 
any light thereon is unwholesome and not at- 
tractive to healthy minds,” according to those 
who tell us what we ought to read. Strange 
doctrine, but prevalent ! 

Another said : “ One more of those deplorable 
books that deal in the supernatural and aim to 
make readers take a morbid interest in death. 
Its author has no eyes for the thousand fresh 
themes of life, but must needs delve into the 
darksome hereafter for material with which to 
burden her absurd pages. Why should any one 
turn from the SAveet theme of love to wander in 


The Book and Its Critics. 


355 


paths so remote from taste and wholesome im- 
agery as this ? ’’ 

Some sneered at it, some ignored it and many 
abused it. Few had so much as a tolerant word 
for it. Yet verily a mystery guideth the fate of 
a book as well as the growing of a daisy, for 
“ The Last Enemy ” sold astonishingly fast, and 
was read and talked about far and wide. In a 
few months it was the best known book of the 
year, in spite of the critics, and brought fame and 
money to its author, though too late, her friends 
said. 

Is anything too late ? Come not all things at 
their appointed time, neither sooner nor later 
than they are due ? In the divine drama of the 
universe the curtain never falls until the play is 
finished. In our short-sightedness we say our 
friend died too soon, or his good fortune came 
too late; but we are in error. Everything is 
part of the eternal plan, and to be out of time or 
place an impossibility. 

Never to Cartice Doring had life appeared so 
well worth living, nor work so well worth doing. 
To Lilia Joy she said : 

“ I am just beginning to live. I am learning 
what life means, what we can make of it, and 
what I am. We are love. 

“We love because we cannot help it. It is our 
expression, and the greater, wider and more all- 
inclusive our love, the fuller, larger, more perfect 


356 


An Index Finger. 

and more abundant is our life. How beautiful it 
all is ! How orderly and harmonious ! How 
glorious ! 

“ Most of my life I have written down to the 
majority of readers. Now I shall bring them up 
to me. I shall follow my ideals, as I did in 
‘ The Last Enemy.’ Our ideals ! What are they 
but our souls, trying to reveal themselves to 
other souls. Here in this noble poem by Kath- 
erine Lee Bates, the ideal speaks : 

“ At the innermost core of thy being, I am a burning fire 
From thine own altar-fiame kindled, in the hour when souls 
aspire : 

For know that men’s prayers shall be answered, and guard 
thy spirit’s desire. 

“ That which thou wouldst be, thou must be ; that which thou 
shalt be thou art ; 

As the oak, astir in the acorn, the dull earth rendeth apart, 

Lo, thou, the seed of thy longing, that breaketh, and waketh, 
the heart. 

******* 

**Call me thy foe in thy passion ; claim me in peace for thy 
friend : 

Yet bethink thee by lowland or upland, wherever thou wiliest 
to wend, 

I am thine Angel of Judgment, mine eyes thou must meet in 
the end.” 

“I know that well, Lilia. Woe be to those 
who have outraged their ideal on that day, when 
their souls shall meet it face to face. I have 
sinned against mine, and have met its accusing 
eyes already. But now I have begun my atone- 
ment, and am eager to go on with it. There is 


The Book and Its Critics. 357 

joy in creating what we wish to create — that 
means giving form to our ideals.” 

But Lilia was silent, wondering what ideals her 
friend would follow in that country into which 
flesh and blood can never enter. In her eyes 
Lilia saw the strange light that flames up only 
when the end of the journey is near ; and on her 
face, and in all that she said and did was a hint 
of imminent change, plain to others, unseen by 
herself. 

In the Sanscrit is a story of one who asked 
what is the most wonderful thing in the world. 
The answer is that every man should believe that 
all shall die but himself. The reason of this is 
that he shall not die, and his soul knows it. 

Kemember this, you who see your beloved 
going down into what we call Death’s Yalley, 
serene, hopeful, unconcious of their doom. They 
are wiser than you. They know they shall not 
die. 


358 


An Index Finger. 


CHAPTEE XXIV. 

WHO ARE THEY ? 

“ Who are they that are compelled to recommence the same 
existence ? ” 

“ They who fail in the fulfilment of their mission, or in the 
endurance of the trial appointed to them.’^ 

— Allan Kardec, 

If the red slayer think he slays, 

Or if the slain think he is slain ; 

They little know the subtle ways 
I keep and pass and turn again. 

— Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

Personally I must confess to one small weakness. I cannot 
help thinking that the souls toward whom we feel drawn in 
this life are the very souls whom we knew and loved in a 
former life, and that the souls who repel us here, we do not 
know why, are the souls that earned our disapproval, the souls 
from whom we kept aloof in a former life. — F. Max Muller, 

Months on swift wing slipped away. Car- 
tice’s pen was busy every day, and every day 
she delighted more and more in her work, be- 
cause she was saying what she wished to say, 
was expressing herself fearlessly and freely. 
New plans of action fairly rioted in her brain. 
Plans ! When had they ever worked for her ? 

There are persons who mark out everything 
ahead, and Fate lets them live their arrange- 
ments to the letter, but Cartice was not one of 
them. 


Who are They? 


359 


The lamp of the spirit, which tells unutterable 
things, now burned in her eyes, with an unearthly 
brightness, throwing its touching radiance over 
all her words and deeds ; but she did not under- 
stand. She alone saw not the heavenly illumi- 
nation. 

But one day the imminent change was made 
plain to her, though how she never told. Com- 
ing to Lilia, with whitened face, and the old- 
time, all-compelling appeal in her eyes, which 
neither man nor woman could see without a 
bursting heart, she said : 

“ I must soon leave you. It has been shown 
me and I understand.” 

Under the spell of the wordless pain in the 
glorious eyes, her heroic friend flung her arms 
about her, crying, “ Cartice ! Cartice ! My dear 
one ! I cannot bear it ! I cannot bear it ! ” 
And together they wept tears of such anguish as 
only the strong ever weep. 

For a few days the heart-breaking look con- 
tinued in Cartice’s eyes ; but in the silence of the 
night help came from the great source, and she 
got up one morning with peace shining in her 
face. 

“ Often in the past,” she said to Lilia, “ I have 
wished I could die and be out of trouble. But 
now I want to live : now I know that dying 
doesn’t put us out of trouble. We must grow out 
of it by evolving above it, learning to master it. 


360 


An Index Finger. 

“ Most of my life, as I look back upon it, seems 
to have been mere blind groping. Now, when 
I think I have learned how to live, the business 
of life is done. And I have learned how to work 
in a way that never would meet failure; but 
that, too, is done. 

‘‘ And yet, in spite of the mystery and the 
grimness of it, something tells me all is well ; 
that nothing can be lost; that what I have 
learned will be useful somewhere. Perhaps we 
are here for the purpose of learning how to live 
and work. When that is accomplished, we must 
go on and learn other things, and we can take no 
other road than the one we have named Death, 
and painted black. But you and I know that it 
leads into light, and, though we die, we shall 
continue to live, and shall evolve, unfold and ex- 
pand, even ‘ it doth not yet appear what we shall 
be.’ 

“ Yet knowing this — for we have knowledge, 
not simply belief — there are moments when a 
childish terror seizes me. But why should I fear ? 
Millions have traveled the same road, the timid 
and faint-hearted as well as the bold and brave, 
and all went forth alone. We say alone, because 
we see no visible companions go with them ; 
yet we know that no one is ever alone, either 
here or on that inscrutable journey, or at its 
end. 

‘‘But notwithstanding all I have learned of 


361 


Who are They? 

the life to follow this, I cannot picture it — can- 
not form any clear idea of it. JSTor can I realize 
that life as I know it now must end. I try to 
think of the days to come when I shall not be 
here, nor be anywhere as I am now, and when 
the form through which I act will have vanished 
utterly from the face of the earth, but I cannot ! 
I cannot ! 

I am always I in consciousness, always exist- 
ing, never dead, never different. Is it not the 
mystery of mysteries ? 

I try to imagine a time when I may come 
here to our little home and be unseen hj you, 
unable to lift a book, flutter a curtain or speak 
one word that you can hear ; but I cannot. How 
inconceivable it is that in a short time I shall be 
in a condition so different from this that imagi- 
nation itself cannot paint it ! ” 

Cartice awoke from sleep one day with a loud 
cry, a wail of terror that went to the heart. 

“ What is it, dear ? ” asked Lilia, bending over 
her. 

Her eyes wandered wildly around the room, 
and at last, reassured by a sight of familiar ob- 
jects, lost their look of affright. 

It must have been a dream,” she said, ‘‘ but 
so very real. I was lying under the elm tree at 
home, as I so often did when a child ; yet I was 
as I am now. Close about me came a little com- 
pany of people shining like the sun. When they 


362 


An Index Finger. 

were very near, I knew them to be people from 
my planet — my own people, whom I remember 
well, and whom I saw in a dream years ago. 
One, a woman, the most beautiful of all, had a 
face so familiar I almost spoke her name ; but I 
could not quite grasp it, though she seemed very 
near and dear to me. 

“ ‘ Your work is done,’ she said ; and there was 
sadness in her voice, and pity in her eyes. 

‘‘ ‘ Well done ? ’ I questioned, though with a 
sinking of the heart, for I began to be afraid, I 
knew not why. 

“ ‘ Did you always do your best ? ’ she asked. 

‘I^o;’ I answered, conscience-smitten. 

^ Then ’ — 

I interrupted, for I could not bear to hear 
what I feared she would say. 

‘ Who art thou, who look so pitiful and seem 
so dear, and whom I yet fear ? ’ I asked. 

“ ‘ I am thine Ideal — thine Angel of Judgment 
— who hath so often come to thee and from 
whom thou hast almost as often turned away.’ 

‘ But I serve you now,’ I cried. ^ I do my 
best. I have learned my lesson.’ 

Yes, you have learned the lesson, and will 
do better next time,’ she said, compassionately. 

“ ‘ Next time ? ’ I echoed, trembling with fear. 

‘^‘Yes; next time, for you must come again 
and do it over and do it right,’ she said, sternly. 

Then I shrieked and awoke. O Lilia, now I 


363 


Who are They? 

see, I know, I understand. I must live my life 
again and live it better — must do my best all 
the way through. I don’t want to — no ; I don’t 
want to ; but I must, and so must all who fail to 
give their best — not as penalty, but because it is 
the only way to learn, and to grow. 

“We have lived always ; we shall live always. 
This is the foundation rock upon which we build 
the indestructible temple, character. Victor Hugo 
spoke of life as a fairy tale a thousand times 
written, and said there was not an age in which 
he could not find his spirit. He believed he 
would exist forever, inasmuch as he felt in his 
soul thousands of songs, and dramas that never 
had found expression: He was sure he should 
come again and give them life. I, too, feel 
within me numberless tales untold which must 
be born somewhere. A great soul, like Hugo, 
may voluntarily come again and again to help 
others; but a recreant dreamer like me must 
come. 

“ Years ago I had a dream that now I under- 
stand. It is my belief, as you know, that every 
mortal has a soul-guardian — a being higher than 
a spirit, a dweller in the land of souls, beyond 
the middle kingdom, far away from the earth 
and its ties. This guardian gives us all the ex- 
periences we have, because he sees their uses in 
our development. The bitter cups we would 
fain have pass from us he resolutely holds to our 


364 


An Index Finger. 

lips, because he knows it is good for us to drink 
of them. Blessings disguised as calamities and 
sorrows come from his hand, and all the fires of 
anguish that scorch us are fanned by his breath. 

I dreamed of this guardian angel. He was 
going with me through life, or rather through a 
series of scenes or situations representing differ- 
ent lives. I could talk to him, and hear him, but 
could not see him. Of the many pictures that 
were shown to me I remembered only two when 
morning came. 

‘‘In the one which represented a life before 
this I was resting on a rude couch, outdoors, 
near a blazing fire, in the midst of a nauseating 
swamp. It was after night, and the light from 
the fire played fantastically on dank little pools, 
rank tufts of grass, curious plants, watery mosses 
and slimy roots. 

“Looking off into the swamp I saw a great 
mottled snake curled up in a hollow, looking di- 
rectly at me, malignity darting from his eyes. I 
pointed him out to the people who were about 
me, and told them I would kill him. But one 
and all urged me to let him alone, and predicted 
serious trouble, if I disturbed him. 

“ I answered that it was trouble to have him 
there, throwing hate upon me with his eyes, and 
that, at least, I would give him a hint that his 
presence was not desirable. So I got up and 
threw a stone at him. It struck him straight on 


365 


Who are They? 

his back, but rebounded as though it had met a 
wall, without so much as bruising him, save in 
spirit. It enraged him fearfully. He raised 
himself in the air perpendicularly till he stood 
on his tail, and hatred flashed from his eyes in 
bright electric rays. 

“ He did not stop at this, but hurled invective 
after invective at me in plain English, and 
threatened me as a snake never threatened be- 
fore. He hissed, raved, cursed and glared at me, 
and swore that he would take it out of me in 
slices scattered along a thousand years. In short, 
he made me understand clearly enough that his 
principal business forever after would be to make 
me wretched. So direful were his threats that I 
lay down on my small bed quaking with terror, 
fearing either to sleep or stay awake, and ^ none 
had power to protect me from mine enemy.’ 

“ To make it worse, the people about me said, 
‘I told you so,’ and sermonized on the matter. 
They said, ‘You can’t destroy hate with hate. 
That increases it. That mottled fellow in the 
swamp is not the enemy you have to dread. The 
cruelty you put out, when you threw a stone at 
him, is your real enemy. It will come back to 
you through him, because it is the law. He will 
trouble you far down the line. Your heart shall 
bleed again and again, because of blows from 
hands you never injured ; but it will be but your 
own deed returning to you, and something of 


866 An Index Finger. 

your mottled foe shall mark you, for many and 
many a day.’ ” 

(Lilia looked at the mottled eyes of her friend 
with a new interest, wondering if the curious 
splashes of tawn had been flung there by her 
ancient enemy.) 

“ Now I understand why I have been treated 
cruelly often by the very persons I loved and be- 
lieved in. Somewhere I have earned it. Some- 
where I gave it forth, and it has come back a 
hundredfold, for good and bad both multiply 
themselves on their return trips. Even Farns- 
worth’s cruelty to me, which hurt me so much, 
was no doubt in accord with the law of causality 
I had set in motion. But he, too, shall reap as he 
has sown. 

^‘The other picture represented this life, I 
think. I was climbing a hillside, accompanied 
by a little party of friends and attended by the 
guardian of my soul, who beguiled the way by 
pleasant speech and cheery good-will. At last we 
reached the top and found there an old-fashioned 
inn, clean and comfortable, with bare white 
floors, big rooms, and broad wooden sofas, that 
looked inviting to our tired bodies. Before I 
entered, I looked to the west, and saw a scene of 
beauty never to be forgotten. Sunlight, soft as 
moonlight, fell on fields of swaying grain, on 
trees gay with blossoms and heavy with fruit at 
the same time, on flowers whose perfume sweet- 


367 


Who are They? 

ened all the air, on birds whose bright plumage 
dazzled the eye. I gazed spellbound. The very 
sky above was new and strangely beautiful. 
Looking down, I saw what before I had not 
noticed, that the hill was cut off close by my 
feet, and between me and this lovely landscape 
yawned a bottomless ravine. Stretching forth 
his hand and pointing to it, my guardian said, 
‘ Behold the promised land ! But you shall not 
enter in — not yet ! 'No ; you shall not enter in 
until you come with the great seal in your hand.’ 
With one longing, hungry glance at the para- 
dise I was not yet ready to know, I turned and 
went into the inn, longing for rest. 

I have almost reached the inn. I have seen 
the promised land but have not yet the great 
seal. After a rest in the inn — who knows, — per- 
haps I can bridge the ravine.” 

Those last days — those precious last days, hoAV 
beautiful they were ! 

Northern forests put on a glory of gold and 
red after the frost has touched them with its de- 
stroying hand, and the winter is near. Dying 
suns diffuse a strange brightness, and the spirit of 
man, when passing out of sight, often radiates a 
heavenly splendor. 

So it was that the soul of Cartice Doring never 
gave forth so much of sweetness as in the last 
days of her stay here. 

“ It is much to have learned one’s lesson,” she 


368 


An Index Finger. 

said. “Next time I can begin in a higher class. 
So you see, after all, this life wasn’t wasted. 
Yes, I have learned a little, and shall not find the 
road so rough next time. 

“ W ould I could give others what I have learned. 

“ I smile at my early idea of happiness, though 
it wasn’t unique at all, but quite common — the 
ideal of all the undeveloped. 

“ Now I know that happiness is a spiritual con- 
dition — spiritual healthfulness — spiritual unfold- 
ing the heaven within one which comes when 
self is forgotten and we see our oneness with all 
that is. It is our unfolding, our growth or evo- 
lution into knowledge, truth and light. 

“ It comes when we learn how to love, — when 
we see ourselves in every other self, and the su- 
preme self in everybody and everything. 

“ What matter whether we call the great ocean 
in which we move and live and have our being, 
God, soul, energy, force or thought, we are its 
offspring or manifestation, and can never for one 
instant be separated from it. We are because it 
is. And see how this divine principle ever strives 
for our highest health and happiness. If I but 
cut my finger, it miraculously heals the wound. 
Out of its boundless resources it forms a new 
cuticle to cover the abrasion. If my spirit be- 
comes sore the same poAver brings to me from 
every side, the sympathy and love, the spiritual 
sunshine and air which heal that too. 


369 


Who are They? 

“ The hunt for happiness is a true instinct of 
the soul, a prophecy of its divine destiny. We 
were intended for happiness, but a happiness far 
beyond our usual ideals. 

“ A great seer has said that ‘ love is life, and 
love in us is the life of God in the soul of man.’ 

“My soul has always been homesick for its 
native land and its own people — which are but 
other names for love and sympathy — infinite love, 
changeless sympathy. Others, too, are familiar 
with this kind of hunger. All feel it and give 
expression to it in the chase of one phantom after 
another, and to each phantom they give the 
name of Happiness. 

“ Does it not prove that all souls are irresistibly 
drawn toward the great source of love from 
which they sprang, but know not the way thither ? 
The bosom of infinite love is the happiness they 
long for, but in their ignorance of their true be- 
ing and destiny, they pursue every will o’ the 
wisp that dances before their eyes. 

“ It is the soul’s quest for its home, which is 
not place, but state. We need not wait for death 
to let us in, for it is no more beyond the grave 
than here. The pure in heart have reached it. 

“We can experience resurrection before death, 
if we will. When our spiritual nature is awak- 
ened, and we are set free from thraldom to ma- 
terial gods, we have been raised from the dead. 
We can take hold on eternal life now, for it, too, 


370 An Index Finger. 

is a state of the soul. It is to know and live and 
be the good. 

“ The long, long sleep of ignorance must end. 
The soul shall awaken to a knowledge of itself 
and be consciously one with Eternal Being from 
which it was projected, and be free, full-grown 
and happy. 

‘‘ How shall this union be brought about ? By 
our growth, our unfolding. We are our own re- 
deemers. The individual is the reflection or 
manifestation of God. The higher man grows 
intellectually and spiritually, the more of God 
does he reflect. When he becomes pure in heart, 
high in mind, noble and unselfish in all his in- 
stincts and desires, he is in union with God, 
working His Will. 

A modern philosopher expresses it thus : ‘ An 
individual is a subject which unfolds itself as an 
object.’ 

“^Man, the progressively unfolding thinker, 
has descended from the eternally perfect crea- 
tive Thinker.’ 

^ Eternity for every man is but the unceas- 
ingly clear consciousness of his own identity 
in nature with the primal Thinker, of whose 
thought the whole universe is but the outer, or- 
ganic form ! ’ 

“^An individual is an indivisible, immortal, 
self-completing, ideal totality.’ 

^‘How I think I know why at any cost we 


371 


Who are They? 

should give expression to our ideals. They are 
streams from the central fountain of thought. 
To ignore them is to put ourselves out of har- 
mony with the truth and essence of the universe. 
To give them expression is to vibrate in harmony 
with the great heart of all that is. What is a 
genius but one who is in touch with the central 
source of truth and transmits it to others ? 

Now we begin to understand what the love 
of God is — a great ocean in which we perpetually 
swim, the ^ infinite and eternal energy from 
which all things proceed,’ an energy that science 
admits but cannot explain. 

“It is written, ‘Ye shall know the truth, and 
the truth shall make ye free ! ’ We shall know ! 
WE SHALL KNOW. 

“ Already you and I, Lilia, know a part of the 
truth. We know that death is not the extinction 
of memory, conscience, love and all their attend- 
ant emotions. These are manifestations of the 
soul and cannot be destroyed. The body, a clay 
image projected by the soul to make itself visi- 
ble, shall pass, but ‘the soul lives on, and all 
space, all time, all beatitude are its heritage and 
its domain.’ 

“ The great secret of what, whence and whither 
shall yet be known. The dream of man’s per- 
fection shall come true. You and I have read a 
few pages in the sealed book. For us the last 
enemy has been destroyed, the dark river 


372 


An Index Finger. 

bridged. We know there is no separation; that 
the dead are neither dead nor gone. This is the 
great secret of the universe. 

I think I understand what it means to see 
God. The more we see of Him, or It — the great 
principle of intelligence and love — in the atom, 
the insect, the human being or the angel, the 
nobler and sweeter will be our lives. All possi- 
ble forms and modes of existence are expressions 
of himself. As Whitman says, ‘ A mouse is mir- 
acle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.’ 

‘‘ My lifelong dream of finding my own peo- 
ple shall be realized. 

“My people, my own people — they who as- 
pired, struggled and suffered — who came to their 
own, and whom their own so often refused to re- 
ceive. They who first announced the truth in 
all ages, and were stoned and crucified. They 
who brought their divine gifts of poesy and 
prophecy, of art and science, of light in its 
thousand forms and laid them on the world’s un- 
grateful altar. My dear people, I see you in the 
far dim aisles of the past, and I see you toiling 
up the shining heights of the future, and know 
you for my own, my spiritual kindred, with 
whom I dwelt in pleasant and also difficult places 
^huge times ago,’ and with whom I shall yet 
mount and mount great steeps now unseen. 

“ Are not all, all our own people, each a mani- 
festation of the great soul or self that is imaged 


373 


Who are They? 

in all other selves ? But they who know how to 
love are more truly our own. They are farther 
on their upward journey. ^ For as many as are 
led by the spirit of love, these are the sons of 
God.’ 

“ All philosophies, all religions, all literature 
that fail to lead us back to love, our central 
source — love, the essence and substance of life, 
the energy of the world, the potential, moving 
force of all that is or ever shall be, are vain and 
foolish. 

“ Only to love one another. This is the whole 
law. This is what we are always longing and 
hunting for, though we give it many names and 
see it through many veils and in many shapes. 
But it is love, only love, the greatest and sim-r 
plest thing in the world. 

Once I read a story of an Oriental magician 
who performed miraculous cures. When one 
whom he had healed asked his name that he 
might mention it in his prayers, he answered: 
‘ I have many names, but they all mean the same 
— Love.’ 

‘‘ Love is all there is. Everything else is only 
an appearance or phantom. My search for my 
own people was but the search for love, yet how 
many mirages I saw, into how many pits I stum- 
bled before I came in sight of its temple ! 

‘^But the love that opens the kingdom of 
Heaven, like the love of God, is ‘ broader than 


374 


An Index Finger. 

the measure of man’s mind.’ It is the love of 
God — for it is the love of all that is. We know 
not love until we see ourselves one with the 
whole, without division and without difference, 
until we see every man as our brother and every 
woman as our sister and every child as our own, 
or better, as ourselves. 

“ Since I know that the law of sowing and 
reaping is inevitable in its operation, I begin to 
believe I have not found love in satisfying meas- 
ure, because I have not given it out. My con- 
ception of it was the usual narrow one, and that 
fills one with self and selfishness. Love knows 
no self. 

^‘Am I about to leave this world ? No; be- 
cause the world is part of the great Everywhere, 
which is the soul’s home. Yet it is a solemn 
time with me. But I shall float out on trust. I 
Icnow that all is well, and never can be anything 
else. 

“ The Hereafter, so much wondered about. — 
What is it ? Just a continuation of being — an 
eternal now, an endless is, an everlasting pres- 
ent moment. 

Shall our dead be as they were here, when we 
find them again ? This is the cry of the bereft. 
They forget that nothing is the same from day 
to day. The child becomes a man. As a child 
the mother loses it whether it live or die. Change, 
incessant change, is the law of external nature. 


375 


Who are They? 

But the soul of the man is the soul of the child 
awakened and enlightened. Shall it be less, 
when it puts off its eternal form and becomes 
clothed in finer matter ? 

“ ^ Give us our dead, as they were, when they 
left us,’ wail the mourners at the tomb. Does 
any one here go away for a year or years and 
come back the same ? JSTever. 

‘‘ Is the future beyond death a mystery ? Yes ; 
but not more so than the future here. Does any 
man know what the next hour will bring upon 
him? Every moment ahead of us is as com- 
pletely wrapped in mystery as is all that lies 
on the other side of the grave. In both cases 
we can only do our best, trusting in the love that 
created us, and that shapes our course. 

But the loneliness of life ! Who can fathom 
it or explain it? and what can mitigate it? 
Mediocrity feels it not, for its sympathizers 
swarm. But in the hearts of the highest it is 
densest and deepest. As the soul grows upward, 
it feels itself isolated, and the isolation has in it 
a poignant anguish. 

Hours come upon us, when we feel that we 
touch no other soul. Even the companions we 
take to our hearts never enter the most solemn 
recesses of our nature. There the soul sits alone 
— always alone. And this invisible place, this 
awful solitude is the soul’s real world, its most 
fateful portion of existence. Yet into this secret 


376 


An Index Finger. 

place, this hidden and lonely life, we take the 
ideas and feelings we cherish in relation to our 
fellow-beings, so that though we seem to live 
alone in the depths of ourselves, yet we are never 
severed from our kind, never really solitary. The 
oneness of humanity asserts itself and its claims 
upon us, and in spite of the soul’s solitude we un- 
derstand that no man liveth to himself. 

“ But the ache that nothing cures is always 
with us. We turn to the arms of human affec- 
tion, it is there. We sit down to the feast of the 
intellect; it is there, likewise. We wander in 
search of new scenes ; but, in the face of all that 
can delight the eye, it cries out from within for 
the satisfaction it never finds. 

‘‘ Satisfied ! Satisfied ! Shall the yearning soul 
ever be satisfied? In the hope that it would, 
mankind constructed its far-off heaven, and said 
to the weary and the disappointed : ‘ There ye 
shall be satisfied.’ 

But it is not true. Never, never shall we be 
satisfied. Though we explore all the mysteries 
of all worlds and taste all the joys and pleasures 
therein, we shall not be satisfied. ^ We but level 
that lift to pass and continue beyond.’ 

When I wallc in graveyards and see the child- 
ish twaddle about ‘ Best,’ ‘ Heavenly Mansions,’ 
and ^New Jerusalems,’ there carved upon the 
stones, I am pained at the mental infancy they 
denote. Dying does not mean rest, nor does it 


37T 


Who are They? 

open heavenly mansions or golden cities to us. 
The striving and the climbing go on and never 
end. 

‘‘ It is the ache in the heart, the void in the 
soul that cries out to be filled which lift us up- 
ward. Were we content, we should rise no 
higher. Were we satisfied, we should be in a 
condition which would insure our destruction. 
But the soul’s hunger for finer and better food 
is the principle of eternal life which makes us in- 
destructible and eternally expansive. By means 
of it we grow. Thank God that neither here 
nor elsewhere can we attain content ! 

“ And as we go higher we can reveal to lower 
souls their sorrows, and show them how to over- 
come them — how to grow. This is the greatest 
service one soul can render another. 

“ But we must not be content with mouthing 
theories — we must live our love, must give from 
the heart and look only to the heart, for ‘ out of 
the heart are the issues of life.’ ‘ The sign of the 
mastery of the divine life in us is the readiness 
to serve.’ 

‘‘ And we must not dream of rest. There is 
none anywhere, neither here nor on all the end- 
less road that stretches before us. Life is action, 
ceaseless action. 

Nor is there any heavenly shore where we 
can wander free from perplexities and obstacles. 
Always, always will there be something to over- 


378 


An Index Finger. 

come. We are building, building, ever building, 
we know not clearly what. Every unfolding of 
the divine life within us opens the way to still 
more unfolding. The heaven, the happiness, the 
joy we dream of and search for, is in the unfold- 
ing, not in any fixed state at which we shall 
arrive, for we pause nowhere. 

“ ^ This is not Death’s world : it is Life’s. Death 
has no empire anywhere.’ In time to come its 
very signs shall pass away. There shall be no 
more graves, nor marks to graves to say that the 
dust of any lie there. All dust is the same and 
all places the same; and life everlasting is the 
eternal heritage of all souls.” 

A few days later Cartice said she saw the 
Butterfiy near her, and that she now had most 
beautiful wings. Others thought her mind wan- 
dered, but Lilia understood. 

Clasping the hand of her friend, she smiled 
and slept ; but her waking was on the other side 
of death, with her own people. 


Last Words. 


3Y9 


CHAPTEE XXV. 

LAST WORDS. 

Come, lovely and soothing death, 

Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, 

In the day, in the night, to all, to each, 

Sooner or later, delicate death. 

Praised he the fathomless universe, 

For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious. 
And for love, sweet love — but praise ! praise! praise! 

For the sure enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death. 

— Walt Whitman, 

Gabeiel Noeeis uttered the few reverent 
words that consigned the dust of Cartice Doring 
to the purifying flames. This was his conclusion : 

‘‘ ‘ No man liveth to himself, and no man dieth 
to himself.’ We all understand that better, when 
in the presence of the voiceless dead, than at any 
other time. Then it is that we feel our oneness 
most ; then do we come into more solemn touch 
with the great heart of all ; then, even when our 
hearts are breaking, we better understand the in- 
finite love that manifests in every event of our 
lives, even the last mysterious one which takes 
us out of the sight of our fellow-men. 

“ Then it is that the problem of life confronts 
us with importunate appeal, and demands from 
our bleeding hearts an answer. 

She whose still white form lies here, lived, 


380 


An Index Finger. 

aspired, suffered, joyed a little perhaps, and 
learned a part of the great lesson whose book 
has no end, worked side by side with us, and 
then passed out of our sight, leaving only this 
perishable temple to return to its elements. 

“ Has she but passed through a door to array 
herself in new garments on the other side, in a 
larger chamber, or has the unit of her individu- 
ality melted back into the Universal ocean, as a 
drop of water falls again into the sea from which 
it has been dipped ? 

‘‘ Does the heart that has groaned in anguish 
and throbbed with love find the end of every- 
thing in dreamless oblivion? Or does it still 
throb on somewhere out of our sight, but not out 
of the care of the divine love that thought it into 
being ? 

“ For her this great question was answered 
long before the illusion we call death transferred 
her to a larger chamber. She knew that she 
should never die ; that, as a unit, an individual, a 
soul, she was indestructible, the heir of all the 
ages through all the ages. 

‘‘Communion of spirit? Do you sneer at it 
as an unsatisfactory, even if a possible thing? 
What else have we here ? We are spirit now as 
much as we shall ever be, and all our communion 
with each other is spiritual, for every act of our 
lives has a spiritual quality, and is but the ex- 
pression of spirit. 


Last Words. 


381 


“ The things we see are but fractions of that 
which we see not. We never saw the soul to 
whose visible form we bid farewell for a time 
to-day. We saw but its mask, its clay image. 
That which made its impress upon us was the 
spirit. By means of what it said and did, by the 
flash of kindness in the eye, by the pressure of 
the hand in sympathy, by all the means great 
and small by which it expressed its good will 
and love to others, it revealed itself. These are 
what we shall remember and cherish. 

“ Life is not all ‘ a striving and a striving and 
an ending in nothing.’ It is an endless becoming. 

‘‘ Let us work by every means in our power to 
educate the individual, to develop the unit, the 
imperishable, never-dying unit, for this is the 
secret of all improvement, all growth, all happi- 
ness. Only by growth out of ignorance into 
knowledge can we come into our inheritance of 
eternal good. 

“ Ifothing is great in this world and nothing is 
small. I cannot say of the soul whose transition 
we celebrate to-day that it was either, for there 
is no distinction. It aspired, and that means 
much. It strove to go up higher ; and that' striv- 
ing will lift it into the fulness of light. 

That living, loving, truthful, beautiful spirit, 
has not gone back to the sea of universal Being 
to lose its identity. There is no going back. In 
that sea we live and move and have our being 


382 


An Index Finger. 

now, as well as in the future, yet we remain in- 
dividuals. The union with the one mind toward 
which we are all moving is an harmonious ever- 
upward-tending life, not an extinction of the indi- 
vidual. The school, the club, the state are its 
prototypes here, — a blending of the many units 
in one body, but the extinction of none. 

“We sorrow, but not without hope. Our friend 
still lives. We shall find her again.” 

“ I loved her,” said Gabriel Norris, as he sat 
with Lilia in the little flat after all was over. 
“ To be near her I came to New York. She 
never knew ; but noyr she knows. My love did 
not crave possession. I was happy in loving. I 
am still happy in it. She lives and I love her. 
It is enough.” 


THE END. 




Oeacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: 



m 1996 

Bbbkreeper 


A/S 


PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES, INC. 
1114 William Rinn Highway 
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